Of Strange Things, Long Unseen
by UnknowableGeometry
Summary: Nen Fielding is a sheriff's deputy in the town of Bree, circa 3014, and she can see the Dead. This ability has before been only a novelty of sorts-the type of thing that she keeps quiet about and ordinary folk prefer not to notice. But after an ill-fated journey South, she finds herself in the depths of Minas Morgul, at the mercy of its terrifying king. (Witch-King/OC)
1. Chapter I

**Chapter I: Of "Unnatural Things"**

 **Bree (February, 3014)**

 _An Excerpt of the Sheriff's Journal, Concerning Undersheriff Nen Fielding_

… _Fielding is, without a doubt, a fine and accomplished deputy. However, despite my greatest reservations concerning the matter, I have revoked the aforementioned individual's standing as undersheriff of Bree. This decision follows a grave incident on the Greenway, and although I was not personally present, reports of travelers are numerous. I have personally (and reluctantly) conducted an in-depth investigation, and discovered these reports to be trustworthy. What follows is a compilation of these reports in narrative, as best as I am able to manage at the time being. I hope, to any concerned parties in the future, that it is enough to convince any in doubt of my decision._

 _January 10, 3014: Weather was unseasonably warm, rainy, and blustery. Strange reports from the South, and travelers in increased numbers on the road. Past the sheriff's lunch at noon (note: a frugal and quickly-eaten fare), reports arrived from the xxth mile marker of the Greenway. A party of travelers had been robbed, and a highwayman left straightaway for our humble office, imploring aid. Undersheriff Fielding, being experienced in dealings with unsavory characters in the surrounding Bree-lands, promptly volunteered her aid. She was provided with one of the swiftest company horses, a mare by the name of Mayburry. At an unspecified hour before sundown, Fielding arrived at the party, to find that a member had been abducted along with all valuable items. Without inquiring with the sheriff's office further, Fielding immediately set off to trail the brigands._

 _Here, the reports take an unsettling turn. The abducted traveler was a young man by the name of Winrow. Partway through his abduction, the brigands determined that they no longer wished to risk leaving a noticeable trail, and Winrow was quickly vanquished._

 _Nearly two days later, of course, Fielding returned, altogether not much worse for the wear, considering that at some point during that time, she had located the brigands, their camp, and the stolen goods. For a while at least, I merely attributed this success to Fielding's excellent, well, field skills. Had it not been for the later capture of one of the brigands, whose name will remain out of these records for the time being, I would not be aware of the means by which my undersheriff located them. This particular witness was following the party of brigands, being an experienced trail-extinguisher. When he heard Fielding approach on her horse, he promptly dodged into some underbrush, where he watched the following proceedings with dismay:_

 _Fielding, upon finding the discarded body of Winrow, dismounted her horse and knelt beside him. At this point, she began_ speaking _to the dead man, inquiring as to the events that left him there, and how she might find his killers. The conversation was quite casual, according to the brigand, as though she were meeting an acquaintance for afternoon tea. After spending a bit of time in her seemingly one-sided conversation, the undersheriff left on her horse with a parting promise to return and properly bury the man once her business was finished._

 _As if this information were not peculiar enough on its own, the brigand also recalled discussing the location of their secret camp in front of the soon-to-be-dead man. Fielding immediately set off in the proper direction of this camp, and came upon it without any coincidence. All that is left to be concluded, then, is that my agent had a proper conversation with a dead man, and has likely had similar conversations before._

 _At the risk of being removed from my position as High Sheriff for the exploitation of Unnatural Things, I have removed Fielding from her position. I hope that my decision is respected and understood, although I will not speak directly of these happenings unless I am called under official questioning. In the meantime, I have appointed a new undersheriff…_

* * *

 **Bree (March, 3014)**

The rain beat heavily on the murky windowpane of her small, second-floor room, which was located above an equally small and second-rate tavern called "The Ghostly Sailor." Considering that there was no place to sail for miles, a tavern of this name was not quite appropriate. However, it was more likely the ale that kept customers away, as it tended to be as sour as the tavern's owners were oft to be. Only its upstairs inhabitant found the name to be fitting, in an ironic sort of way.

The woman in question was sitting on her stiff bed, turning a small copper badge over and over in her fingers. Engraved in neat letters was her name, Nen Fielding _._ She was not allowed to wear the badge anymore, nor was she really allowed to have it. But the Sheriff, being the rather softhearted and reluctant fellow that he was, let it pass "just this once."

She turned her gaze to the only other piece of furniture in the room—a rickety chair, which was suddenly inhabited by a grim and gray old rascal with a trademark sea captain's hat that was as raggedy and tattered as his namesake tavern. He spoke with a wispy voice that did not match his terrifying appearance in the least: "Ye'er really gonna quit, aren't ye?" His town was outwardly scoff-ish, but held an almost fatherly tone that she only recognized after years of dealing with him.

"Well, I really don't have much of a choice this time," she said, continuing to fidget with the old badge.

"If I weren't so filled with my scruples, so to speak, I'd tell ye to stage a mutiny!" The sea captain raised himself from the chair, raising one fist in the air as though to rally her.

In an attempt to keep from laughing, Fielding shook her head and tucked the badge in her pants-pocket again. "Stage a mutiny against the entire sheriff's office of Bree? You tell me when you come up with a way to do that. In the meantime, I will enjoy not being chased down by countless mounted deputies." She shook her head again and muttered, "'Scruples,' certainly." When she glanced up, her ghostly companion had vanished, and she let a small sigh escape her lips. He was most likely off to mope invisibly at the bar, scheming up ways to cheer her (although he would never admit to such a thing). The old captain had been lonely for quite some time, unable to pass on due to the dark deeds that still haunted his past. She never inquired as to what they were, but she suspected, after many years of conversation, that he once had great status as a pirate. How he came to Bree was another matter, as was how he became her unlikely friend and guardian of sorts. He _did_ tell her how he died, which seemed to be a favorite discussion point among the ghosts whom she encountered: "Was a bar fight, and you shoulda seen the other man, lassie. No, well, I understand the he lived and I died, but I were _one-hundred and two years old, lassie._ I woulda won, had me heart not decided I was done fer. _"_ And he had haunted the old tavern ever since, remaining for a reason that she did not entirely understand.

Ghosts were like that, she mused. Sometimes, as with Winrow, they passed on immediately after they fulfilled a purpose, which was often to help the living. Other times, they lingered on, unable or unwilling to leave behind the world of the living. Those ghosts were, in her experience, cantankerous and altogether unsavory, but not impossible to reason with. They were a world apart from wraiths and other dark spirits.

Fielding shivered then, and a gust of well-timed wind slammed against her small window. Wraiths were another matter altogether. She had encountered one on a rather ill-fated trip to the barrows in her youth. At the time, she knew she could see well what others could not see, unless they had a veil purposefully lifted for them. Because of this, her interactions with the "other" world were more poignant. In the case of the wraith, she had been nearly stricken with paralysis, so overcome was she by the hatred and unnatural magic that surrounded it. She did not know who rescued her that day, only that she was indeed rescued. She made a point to avoid barrows altogether, now. Which happened to raise a few questions during her years as a deputy…

She shook her head to clear thoughts that were threatening once again to draw on self-pity. Moping was getting rather old, and there were certainly still adventures to be had. Like buying bread, for instance. Gathering her threadbare walking cloak, she left the tiny room and her thoughts for the time being, setting out into the cold and rainy streets.

* * *

Fielding did not put much thought to it at first, but the more she walked, the more she noticed that the town was unusually quiet. The rain had made the cobblestones rather slick and soggy in places, and occasionally she caught her rather sorry-looking reflection in a puddle. But no passers-by. At that moment, she cursed the fact that she was now unaware of the dangerous and exciting happenings of the land. There was a time when she knew exactly why the town was quiet, and this was not such a time.

Upon reaching the bakery, Nen was drawn instead to the crowd of mounted and cloaked individuals outside of the jailhouse. They all wore cloaks of green, which in the rain took on the color of deep, sunless pine forests. In the center, the sheriff's tall, thin figure could be spotted, sporting his signature mustache beneath a long and sharp nose. The collective voices of the group sounded like the grumbling of distant thunder, and as Fielding neared them, she caught snippets of discussion.

"Danger to the south… Coming your way… Orcs and armies…" Her heart skipped a beat. Although she was familiar with the rising tides of bad news, this seemed so _immediate_. And these men, she realized suddenly, were Rangers of the North. It was rare but not unheard of to see them in Bree, but such a large gathering certainly spoke of ill tidings. She was now as close to the group as she possibly could be, and was now able to hear more of the conversation, as well as make out the forms of several of the sheriff's deputies.

"…Asking for your aid, in any form that you are able to provide it. We ride forth at sunrise."

The sheriff's voice came apologetically from the dark group. "I'm sorry, I cannot in good mind spare any of my deputies, especially if the news you carry is true. But there is food and drink to be had at the Prancing Pony, and I will gladly pay for your room and board while you are here…"

Fielding drew back and let her legs carry her swiftly home, heart pounding and mind racing all the way. Although a large part of her knew exactly how foolish it was, a larger part knew exactly how she could find her purpose again, in the course of a night.

* * *

An hour before sunrise, a cloaked figure entered the Prancing Pony, carrying naught but a light travel-pack and a one-handed sword strapped to her thigh. Above her heart, she wore the simple copper insignia of a Bree-land deputy. She approached the group of Rangers, who eyed her first with suspicion and then with growing appreciation.

"My name is Fielding," she said with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping that her voice did not betray her apprehension and excitement at such a daring action. "And the High Sheriff has had a change of heart, determining to spare me. I have been tasked to ride with you, and offer whatever help that I can."

And so, Nen Fielding rode out with the Rangers of the North on her "borrowed" mare Mayburry, straight for the mysterious trouble that loomed in the South.

* * *

 **Author's Note (or, What is this Story, Exactly?):**

 **Ever since I read Lord of the Rings, I've fan of the Witch King and the Nazgul. They're just so...mysterious? At any rate, I have always had these stories bouncing around in my head, and finally I decided to write one. Who doesn't love a bunch of tall, gaunt, and fear-inspiring old kings? This first chapter was mostly focused around Nen, but expect plenty of ringwraiths in the future.**

 **Thanks for reading, and reviews/critiques are welcome!**


	2. Chapter II

_Heed the sirens, take shelter, my lover_ _  
_ _Flee the fire that devours_ _  
_ _But the sight held me fixed_ _  
_ _Like a bayonet against my throat_

 _Neither plague or famine tempered my courage_ _  
_ _Nor did raids make me cower_ _  
_ _But his translucent skin_ _  
_ _Made me shiver deep within my bones_

-"Pale White Horse," The Oh Hellos

 **Chapter II: Of Routings and Dark Presences**

Into the watchful darkness of the Morgul Vale marched an army of Orcs, their crude speech and movements made all the more offensive when contrasted with thick silence. Their reason for gloating enjoyment was not immediately apparent, but a particularly observant individual would first notice the green cloaks sported by some of the captains—too fine, indeed, for cloth of Orc-make. Upon the realization that these cloaks were most likely prizes of some dark conflict, the observer would discover that the members in the center of the party were not Orcs or Goblins after all but prisoners, hunched over in pain and exhaustion and dressed in naught but the tattered remnants of their underclothes. But there were no human observers within miles of the grotesque party, and so the Orcs marched onward with their prizes, and the prisoners followed with even the memory of pain gone from their minds.

* * *

 _They were routed. Fielding clutched the reins of her horse, unable now even to draw her weapon in defense. Shouts of fear echoed around her, both of the living and the recently dead, urging those remaining of their party to Flee, Flee and Don't Look Back!_

 _But before she could heed to these warnings, a deep pain bit into her thigh and she was dragged down from her mount onto the stones below, where her head split with pain and then all faded to black._

 _Walk. That is all she knew. What was she called? Even the thought of her name filled her head with unspeakable pain, so it was better not to think at all._

 _Pirate ships. Why did they fill her mind? Pirate ships and a bearded captain with a soft voice and gruff but kindly words. The words that were spoken to her now lacked any form of kindness._

 _Her eyes had been closed for days, she realized. Opening them was a horrid pain. There were others with her—Rangers who survived. The hate-filled voices were not always directed at her._

 _She was no longer aware of the pain in her feet. Walk. Walk. Walk…._

* * *

The prisoners and their captors passed at last beneath the gates of Minas Morgul and into corpse-light glow of its walls and spires. Nen Fielding—for it was her beaten body that trudged along beside the other defeated Rangers—felt a bitter cold that she had not encountered since her childhood misfortune on the Barrow Downs. It spoke of death and hatred and fear, and it sank further into her than even an ordinary chill might. Even the pain that blossomed in her head paled now in comparison, and when she forced her eyes to open, she found a true city of death before her.

Now within the sanctuary of their dead city, the Orcs slowed the pace of their march, as if to provide the prisoners with every opportunity possible to look with fear on what lay before them. And fear they did, for they were in the shadow of evil. But as they neared the tower of Minas Morgul, Fielding felt a dread this time unlike anything she had ever felt before, and she froze. No blunt blows fell to her back, however, for the Orcs themselves had also halted their marching at last. She followed their gazes upward into the spires and arches of the horrid city and found the source of her sudden terror: a man, mounted on a great black steed. A man who was no longer a man, for he had skin as pale as a sickly beam of moonlight upon long-frozen snow. Upon his silver head sat a tall, sinister crown wrought in black iron. His hollow gaze fell on the proceedings of the party, and she felt all around her the trembling awe of her captors. The Rangers beside her were, in contrast, hunched over as if to make themselves as small and sightless as possible, feeling quite akin to field mice hunted by a circling hawk.

But Fielding was frozen, her gaze still drawn upwards, and suddenly it seemed to her as though those fathomless eyes were fixed on her. After what felt to be a small eternity, the Pale King turned on his horse and rode once again into the depths of the city, and suddenly Fielding's legs remembered the long and treacherous walk that they had been subject to and failed her. She remembered precious little afterwards.

* * *

 **Prisons of Minas Morgul (May, 3014)**

It was cold, that much she knew. But at least it was dark, for she could not open her eyes in direct in direct light without setting her entire skull aflame with pain. Her place of holding was uneventful at nearly all times, save for the occasional appearance of stale and worm-filled bread through a slot in the heavy wooden door that separated her from whatever evils loomed without. She did not eat the bread, nor did she move from her place in the far corner of the cell. Truth be told, she could not stand even if she wished it, for her legs would not let her. During these unmarked hours, the only things that filled her mind were the distressed whisperings of countless souls about her, who all pleaded the same variation of "escape or die." So lay Nen Fielding, in a dark corner of an unnumbered cell in the depths of Minas Morgul, intent on little more than wasting away.

But it so happened that there were those within the wretched city who had other plans for her, and this became apparent when the wooden door to her cell was at last thrown open and rough hands encircled her emaciated arms, forcing her to step from the dark box where her death had seemed imminent only moments before. Upon standing, her splitting headache returned with fervor, and she could do little more than let herself be dragged to her new, unknown destination.

Dragged she was, up steep flights of stairs and down cold, unwelcoming hallways until at last she was unceremoniously pushed into another dark room, this one being much larger than her cell. At once, she felt a deep feeling of dread fall over her, and her lungs ceased to work. She curled where she had fallen, desperate to escape the sensation in whatever manner possible. But there was no escape, and from behind her came the guttural growl of one of the Orcs who had collected her.

"Here is the girl you requested, milord. I trust that everything is in order, and—" His speech was cut off by another voice, which reminded Fielding of icy water and claws against stone.

"Enough. Take thy companion and leave us." She heard the hurried scrapings of Orcs preparing to leave, and then of a heavy door slamming shut. She was alone now, with only the sensation of pure terror and exhaustion deep within her bones. But now the horrible whisper addressed her directly. "Open thine eyes, girl."

And she found herself trying, valiantly, to obey this terrifying presence before it punished her in unspeakable ways. After several failed attempts at focus, the creature before her finally materialized. She recognized its appearance immediately, for it was both like and unlike the Pale King she had seen upon her entrance to Minas Morgul. This particular creature's face was not of the same structure—gaunt but not nearly as drawn and regal, and he wore a smaller crown atop his brow. His hollow eyes were fixed immovably on her, and she resisted the powerful urge to curl up and lose the will to live where she lay.

"What dost thou see, girl?" It spat in the same dark whisper, looming before her.

"I-I don't—"

 _"What dost thou see?"_ Fielding shuddered uncontrollably, and the shivers sent incredible pains throughout her body.

"I see you before me. You are pale, like a ghost, but moreso…" she tried to form more words, but no sound escaped her lips. The horrible creature suddenly seemed to draw back, as if in surprise (if such a thing were capable of being surprised).

"Then he spoke truly," the creature muttered, referring to someone whom she did not know. And with that, the creature stepped past her and left, bringing with it the horrible cold until at last Fielding was able to draw reasonable breath back into her lungs. Moments later, she was gathered again by the same rough-handed Orcs who had collected her to her present room, and they dragged her away once more.

* * *

The throne room of Minas Morgul was an echo of its former glory, and upon the throne sat an echo of a former King. He bid entry to the footsteps beyond the room's grand door, as he already knew that they belonged to his lieutenant.

"My lord." The wraith bowed his head to the Pale King on his throne, and approached. "It is true what thou hast feared. The girl can see beyond the veil of death, though I know not how."

The king sat rigid, and it was entirely impossible to see any workings of thought or emotion beyond his gaunt countenance. Without an answer, the lieutenant continued. "I can order her execution, if thou wishest." At this, the king raised a gauntleted arm to signal his wish instead for silence.

"No. I will order her death when I see fit. For now, watch her, and see to it that she does not starve in the depths of the prisons. I seek answers, and her death will not yet bring them." His lieutenant bowed in understanding and left the room, leaving the large door to swing heavily shut behind him. The King of Minas Morgul was left to his own thoughts, deep within the shadows of his ancient throne room.

* * *

Fielding, returned to the darkness of her cell, was again resigned to death among the tortured whisperings of prisoners long past when a different fare from the usual was passed through her cell door. Gone was the stomach-turning bread, and in its place she was presented with a full, untarnished loaf and _a cup of clean water._ She wondered at the anomaly, fearing at first that perhaps this was her execution: death by pleasantly disguised poison. Immediately after this thought, she realized even a death by poison would be preferable to starvation, and so she dragged herself on her elbows to the wonderful gift. Though smaller than any meal she had ever indulged in when she lived in the dingy old room in Bree (ages ago, it seemed), she was so full by the end of it that her stomach hurt. But it was a pleasant change from the hollow ache in the rest of her body, and for the first night in a long time, Fielding closed her eyes in uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Chapter 2! Which ended up taking a bit of a dark turn, actually. As time passes, more will surface about Nen's fateful journey South, and her copper badge will (most definitely probably maybe) become important again. At the moment, our heroine is a bit worse for wear, and rather lacking in anything friendly. But Minas Morgul, being no stranger to death, houses several ghosts that may at least provide some conversation to a person who can see ghosts.**

 **Again, thanks for reading (and for some lovely reviews) and feel free to comment/critique! :)**


	3. Chapter III

**Chapter III: Of Peculiar Correspondences**

 **Prisons of Minas Morgul (Month Unknown, 3014)**

With improved meals came a sense of strange urgency on the part of Fielding's captors, which began with her relocation. The new cell was considerably larger, though not large by any standards outside of those found in an enemy prison. However, it boasted an old wooden bed, upon which was layered straw to serve in the place of a mattress. This was a blessing indeed, and a blessing miraculously free of fleas and lice, to boot.

Immediately following her relocation was an impromptu grooming, which was a bit more unpleasant and unwelcome. It involved a great deal of hair pulling and before she knew it, the tangled lengths of her tresses were gone, leaving only a soft, short crop. Thus ended her grooming, and she was left in silence.

Her more regular diet of bread and water had increased her recovery some, and she was now able to sit upright and alert without immediate headaches. The pain would still return gradually, and so each "day" after she awoke from sleep, Fielding practiced sitting upright a bit longer. Her next focus would be her legs, which still did not function exactly as legs should.

The urgency was short-lived, it seemed, and Fielding found herself in a slightly more survivable, but still quite empty, solitude. There were numerous transient ghosts that haunted the halls and cells of Minas Morgul, but none seemed strong enough to hold a conversation beyond repeated warnings, much less to manifest themselves to her.

Six instances of sleep and sitting practice later, though, Fielding finally met a full-fledged ghost. This one was obviously a beautiful woman before her passing, with long curls tied loosely into a braid beyond her shoulder blades. She entered through the left wall of the cell and paused, seemingly surprised at the new inhabitant, and perhaps more surprised that a mortal woman was staring directly at her.

"Hello," said Fielding. The ghostly woman started a little. "Sorry if I have disturbed something of yours. I didn't really have much of a choice, you see." In her experience, ghosts tended to be a bit territorial, so it was better to err on the side of caution.

"Thou hast disturbed nothing, except perhaps mine heart…" said the woman, holding a thin hand over her spectral chest. "I have not encountered many who do not ignore me these days."

Fielding realized then that she had encountered a particular type of ghost—one that often filled her with sadness. Several years back, she had come across a similar woman who did not understand why her children would not speak to her, and why mention of her name brought them to tears. This woman, at least, seemed a bit more blissful in her wanderings, however misguided they may be. The best action, in any case, was to ignore any references to the matter altogether.

"Well, I'm quite pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm…a new arrival to this…fair city, and I have found myself in need of someone to speak to, at least for a little while," said Fielding, desperately urging her fog-laden mind to keep up with her spoken story. But it was enough, and the ghostly woman smiled brightly.

"Wonderful, indeed. I am no stranger to Minas Ithil, having been raised here. I am called Vessë, if thou wishest for an informant on the happenings of here, Lady…"

"Fielding," she filled in politely, feeling a bit more at ease at the prospect of speaking with someone who did not wish to inspire a deathly fear in her.

"Fielding? I dost not mean thee offense, but that is a most unfortunate—"

"Nen, rather, is my name. Fielding is my surname, but I grew used to it in my line of work, which was not opened up wholly to the idea of women."

At this, Vessë seemed a bit relieved. "Ah. I shall refer to thee as Nen, if it wouldst not bring thee annoyance. And now, Nen, I must take my leave, for this is my hour to stroll about the gardens." She made for the door of the room and was about to pass through when Fielding stopped her.

"Vessë, wait a moment," she said, watching as the ghostly woman paused just short of the heavy wooden barrier to the room. "The king of this tower, what can you tell me of him?" An image of the Pale King rose again in her mind, in all of his fear-inspiring glory.

Vessë expelled an ethereal sigh, and would not seem to meet Fielding's eyes. "Our King is newly to power, but a man of great power and pride, to be sure. Thou wouldst be hard-pressed to gain an audience with him, unless thou wishest death, Lady Nen. He is strong but fears his strength is temporary, and kings of that sort are not to be reckoned with." With that, she faded and left Fielding once more to her thoughts, which now mostly concerned whether or not they were speaking of the same King.

The ghostly woman was a strange one. She spoke in an old Westron, punctuated by an unfamiliar accent, that no longer found its place anywhere in Bree-land. It was similar, Fielding mused, to the way in which the pale creature had interrogated her, and the thought brought her a chill.

At the very least, it did not seem as though she would find answers for a while in this dreadful place, but at least she had made a sort of acquaintance.

* * *

Her next meal of bread and water came with an unexpected item, which followed a gruff announcement.

"Letter," the Orc growled through the small food-door, and a folded letter fell through before the door was closed once again. Fielding, intrigued, passed up her food for a moment to pick up the envelope in her hands. It was a folded piece of heavy paper, stamped with an unpleasant wax seal of a moon and death's head. Upon opening it, she found elegant, spindly writing that after some squinting revealed itself to be in old-fashioned Westron. It was not a particularly elaborate letter, and simply bore the words:

 _Write of thyself, and return correspondence to thy captors when thou hast finished._

There followed no signature—only a long, blank space beneath the haunting script where she supposed she was meant to "write of herself."

The paper, initially intriguing, was now a bit frustrating. How was she supposed to write in return if she did not even have a pen?

And then, as if by Eru's own Providence, the food door opened again and a pen slid through and skittered across the floor to her knees, followed by a small inkwell.

"Forgot these," said the gruff voice. "Give 'em back when you're finished." Fielding reached to grab the inkwell, which was mostly dry but offered some material to write with. She flattened the peculiar letter against the cold stone floor of her cell and paused, wondering if this peculiar prompt was a means of entrapment. A test, perhaps? She sat for a while, simply eyeing the script at her knees. Finally, a spark of courage ignited her to lean forward and write her own words, which were considerably less impressive in appearance than those above them:

 _My name is Fielding._

She paused, thinking. The threat of the cold terror, though always looming, seemed far enough away at the moment, and with her returned energy she found herself feeling a bit insolent.

 _Thank you for the bread. I prefer it to worms._

With that, Fielding folded the heavy paper and slid it beneath the door, also placing the pen and inkwell within reach of the Orc when he returned.

Return he did, a small while later, collecting her correspondence and writing materials away to the mysterious person who had sent them. A thought crossed Fielding's mind that perhaps it was her ghostly acquaintance, playing odd games that had long since lost their meaning. But this theory faded when her next meal arrived. It was a bowl filled with mealworms, and Fielding recoiled immediately when she realized what had happened, retching from her already empty stomach. From outside the door, she heard a gruff sound like laughter, and a letter arrived again with her pen and ink. This was a new letter with a clean, unbroken seal that again bore a moon and death's head. When she opened it, she found the same elegant script, which now bore less kind words:

 _Fielding. Thou canst not afford to be insolent. Thy days of games and simple braveries are over._

 _Write._

Fielding dipped her pen slowly in the ink, feeling that her insolent bravery was indeed gone. A voice from behind her sent her heart racing.

"Do not play games that thou dost not understand, Lady Nen." Vessë had materialized again, worry written on her gray features. The spectral woman sat on Fielding's bed (or rather levitated just a bit above it) and peered over her shoulder to the writing below.

"And what games might those be?" Fielding asked, feeling a bit breathless from the entire ordeal.

"Kings do not play to the whims of children," said Vessë, avoiding the question nearly altogether. Fielding, having passed her twenty-and-second birthday, was not all too keen to be called a "child," but the warning and the bowl of worms served as enough to remind her that she was still a prisoner at the mercy of those who held great power, and not a guest. So this time, she dipped her pen in the small puddle of ink and scratched a more detailed reply:

 _My name is Fielding. I am a prisoner of Minas Morgul, and no brave soul for being so. My traveling party was routed by Orcs_ (she considered writing "your Orcs" here, but realized she had better not make assumptions) _and brought here. I know not where they are, or if they are alive. I am neither a warrior nor a Ranger. I am only a humble deputy, strayed a bit too far from things peaceful and familiar._

Here she paused. Her correspondent certainly could not be asking for mundane details of her life, but…she remembered the pale creature's interrogation, and his concern for what she saw.

 _I see the Dead, though it is not a gift that has brought me much beyond unlikely companionship. I did not come upon it—it came instead to me as a child. Never has it brought harm to those around me, save for fear at that which is not understood. Beyond this, I can offer no more._

With suddenly shaking hands, she folded the paper and placed it once more by the door, making a strong effort to avert her eyes from the disgusting "meal" that was presented to her. Vessë was gone by then, off to her strange wanderings, and Fielding had nothing left to do but wait and fear. A while later, both her letter and the bowl were collected.

The letter, it seemed, was enough to appease her correspondent, for the next thing delivered to her door was once again a healthy piece of bread. This time, there was no letter, and Fielding wondered if perhaps she had told her captors all they needed to know. But after some time—three days at least—had passed, there arrived something entirely unexpected. Her cell door was opened fully, and she glimpsed both a small mob of armed Orcs (prepared for her to bolt, most likely) and a wooden basin filled with murky water, which was shoved into her room before the door was pulled shut again. This was followed by a simple command that again sent chills through her body.

"Bathe. Ye've got an audience with the King." Even through she door, she could here the snickers from the Orcs, and she knew that her strange experience with this accursed city was far from over.


	4. Chapter IV

"He could see them clearly now; they appeared to have cast aside their hoods and black cloaks, and they were robed in white and grey. Swords were naked in their pale hands; helms were on their heads. Their cold eyes glittered, and they called to him with fell voices."

–Flight to the Ford, _The_ _Fellowship of the Ring_

 **Chapter IV: Of Meetings with Kings**

The water of her bath, though murky and cold, was invigorating. For the first time since she had been a prisoner in the deathly city of Minas Morgul, Fielding felt the fog lift from her mind. She scrubbed her body as best she could, removing layers of grime and blood with her fingernails until her skin shone raw and clean. The task took her mind from the inevitable meeting that waited for her, until an impatient fist pounded on the door to her cell.

She hurried then, climbing from the water and wiping herself dry with a threadbare cloth that had been provided for her on the edge of the wooden basin. She saw also that they had provided her with a tunic and trousers that were significantly cleaner than her travel clothes, and she slipped into them gratefully, glad to be rid of the tattered and dirtied remnants of her former wear. Her travel boots she kept, as she was not about to travel barefooted through the cold stone halls of the fortress city. After short thought, Fielding tossed the old rags into the murky water of the tub, determining that her captors could deal with them if they wished. She pounded on her side of the door.

"I am ready! Take me where you will." And they did take her, through winding halls and up and down countless stairs. Her legs protested greatly, but with her wits about her, she dreaded leaning on one of these leering creatures for support. She took her mind off of the pain and her impending fate by studying the architecture of the sprawling fortress around her—something she had not had a chance to do before.

It was evidently a beautiful city at one time, for she was certain that no Orc could devise nor construct such sweeping archways and perfect, seamless stone-laying. But what may have once been lovely was now tainted with death and cruelty. No clean light shone, or none that she ever saw. The walls instead seemed to glow on their own, like trapped moonlight long become sickly and frail and tainted with death. It was awe-inspiring, and frightful.

Their trek brought them to a room that Fielding assumed was quite high up, as suggested by the numerous stairs that they had overcome to reach it. The Orcs accompanying her paused before the tall, dark door before them, showing a sudden hesitation. In that moment, Fielding was aware of it too: a seeping, searching cold that seemed to emanate from within.

"I ain't knocking. Make the whelp knock," growled one of the Orcs, and she was pushed to the front of the party until her nose was nearly pressed against the door. At a loss for what else to do, she raised her trembling fist and pounded with all of her might (which was still quite feeble, given the circumstances).

The door swung open, and at that moment she was given a firm shove into the darkness within, and the next sound she heard was the door closing firmly behind her.

A deathly chill told her of his presence before she even raised her eyes. Upon seeing him, she recognized the Pale King instantly from her arrival to Minas Morgul. He sat upon a stone throne, coiled and watchful, his eyes fixed on her as though to pierce through her every defense. His face was long and regal, though gaunt, and he wore no beard. To Fielding, he looked a man long hungry, starved of life and warmth.

And never had she known such unpleasant, deeply reaching fear in her life. It seemed to _exude_ from him like tendrils that she could only feel, and approaching him felt a disgrace to every natural preservation instinct she held. When she stood perhaps two body's lengths from the dais on which he sat on his throne, Fielding could force herself to move no further. When he spoke, she forced herself not to recoil, and to stand as tall as she could against the shudders that threatened to wrack her body to pieces.

"Thou art the woman who canst see death," he said in his cold, grating whisper. "And yet thou art but a frail wench, barely able to stand. Speak, wench, and convince me of thy fire which thou hast displayed in writing."

"You," she managed, feeling as though every word collapsed the air from her lungs. She inhaled laboriously. "You wrote."

"I did." His eyes were cold, so cold, and impassive. "Thou art a fool, despite thy gifts," he hissed. Then the King paused. "And yet, I do not sense It upon thee, or any of its like."

"I do not…I do not see you through spells, if that is what you fear—"

At this the King stood, and Fielding felt a fresh rush of cold terror. He was taller than any man she had ever encountered, and presence loomed over her even at her distance from him. "I do not fear, fool. Speak not of things which thou dost not understand." But suddenly, almost perversely in its ill timing, Fielding remembered her ghost pirate.

* * *

 _"Ye should fear me, lassie! I ain't no force to be reckoned with, and I don't take kindly ta being robbed of me space!" Young Fielding, barely more than eleven years of age, cowered in the corner of her room, terrified at the bearded ghost that loomed before her._

 _"I'm sorry, I just need a place to stay, Mister, and the tavern keeper, she's my aunt…"_

 _"Blood relations mean nothing to me, ya foolish girl! Get out!" The ghost raised his hand as though to strike her, and Fielding cowered further, until something caught her eye and she forgot, for a moment, to be afraid._

 _"What's that, Mister?"_

 _"What, er, what's what, lass?" The ghost turned his arm, forgetting his wrath as well and feeling entirely puzzled._

 _"The mark. Did you die here?" She asked, extending her finger to point to the long scar on his gray forearm._

 _"Oh, this? Nay, lassie. You see, back in me sailin' days, I came across a rather fearsome man who wanted to take me glory, and I said to him, 'ye better fight me like a man…'"_

* * *

A small warmth had begun to spread in her chest, akin to a candle in a snowstorm. _Territorial ghosts._ How mundane and simple it seemed now, and yet…

The King was watching her intently, seeming to abate in his wrath. She realized too that her trembling had subsided, though she still felt the powerful drain on her body. She spoke, before the momentary light passed from her. "You have called me for a reason, and it cannot be to gloat, certainly?" To her relief, she saw no fury in his cold eyes at this. Only impasse.

"Indeed, I have. Though it seems thou hast answered a most pressing question of mine. Thy _talent_ is oft a gift of enchanted things. One I seek, for One greater than I. But I see now that thou art nothing more than a novelty of sorts," he hissed.

"Do you plan to take my life, then?" Fielding dared to ask, her mind rushing to understand what he was telling her.

"I do not discuss plans of this nature with mortals," the King growled. And then, to her ears, something unexpected: "In thy insolent tongue, tell me, what dost thou see?" He echoed the question of the wraith that had interrogated her, and she balked at the peculiarity of it.

"I see your robes—they are quite silver, like nothing I have seen. And your helm, it is taller than most that I have seen…" She struggled, unsure of what the Pale King wished from her. But he did not prompt her in her ramblings, and only listened with narrowed eyes. "You have…grey hair, and it is long. Longer than men of status keep theirs now, but not by much. And no beard…I would have thought, for a king, you would…" Her breath seemed to run out again, and she spoke no further. He did not speak for quite some time. When he did, his whisper betrayed none of his thoughts, whatever they may have been.

"I have encountered few with thine insolence. Most I have struck down, but greater matters loom now than matters of thy life and death. And thou canst threaten me not, with neither armies nor status. Leave my sight now, and I will spare thee for the time being."

Fielding left, and beyond the heavy door to the fell throne room she found the Orcs who had escorted her. They seemed shocked at her survival, and truth be told, she was as well. The conversation haunted her during the entire trek back to her cell, and then afterwards. She felt that she had gained nothing, but had somehow won her life from the greatest of her captors. She did not understand how, nor did she know whether her continued life as a prisoner in Minas Morgul was a blessing or a curse.

* * *

The Witch-king of Angmar, feared by countless, felt nothing of his former life. He was bent on pride and power—it did not matter to him what was left. He existed to rule and be feared, for eternity under the watchful gaze of his Master. The Nine Riders existed under his command, as did the entirety of Minas Morgul. He was invisible to all save his master and those who rode beside him, and to bearers and users of rings like that which lay heavy with power on his finger. And now, he was visible to a spindly mortal—a woman who claimed to be nothing more than a Bree-land deputy, upholding her idea of peace even as her entire world was about to be engulfed by his powers in the South. She could see him, and never before had he heard words describing his own countenance. When she had told him of beards and kings, an unpleasant thought surfaced that now refused to leave him. Or memory, rather, of a reflection long ago. In it was the face of a Númenórean lord reflected in a mirror, dark of hair and pale-eyed. It smiled languidly back of him, an echo of times long-past and long-buried.

 _To be seen, as though he were a passing mortal_. It gave her a power that he would not suffer to give to any mortal that still lived. And yet, the reflection would not leave him, nor would the thought that he must delay her death. Delay it, until the nature of her gift was made clear. Perhaps, as a wraith, she would somehow prove a useful tool to the conquests of his Master. It was not time for her passing yet.

* * *

 **Minas Morgul Prisons (Date Unknown)**

Time passed—what felt like several weeks to Fielding, without any hint of what her new fate might be. She continued to receive bread, and in the small confines of her cell, she exercised her emaciated body to the best of her abilities. Vessë appeared now and again, but she no longer voiced her cryptic warnings and now only spoke of her misguided wanderings of a city long dead with her. But the company was preferable to silence, and Fielding found herself learning also of times long past, in snippets of their conversation.

And then, without warning, her meal was once again accompanied by a letter, sealed with a moon and death's head.

 _Thy current holdings are no longer furthering thy purpose. Prepare thyself, for thou shalt receive new quarters. A book shall be given to thee, once a week._

 _Educate thyself thusly, for thy knowledge is offensively lacking._

So it came to pass that Nen Fielding, undersheriff of Bree, became the guest of the Witch-king of Angmar.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So this was actually a super difficult one to write, and I'm going to try my absolute best to keep Angmar in character, in all of his hubris-filled glory. I hope you enjoyed it, and as always, feedback is welcome :)**


	5. Chapter V

"…But when the divine portion began to fade away, and became diluted too often and too much with the mortal admixture, and the human nature got the upper hand, they then, being unable to bear their fortune, behaved unseemly, and to him who had an eye to see grew visibly debased, for they were losing the fairest of their precious gifts; but to those who had no eye to see the true happiness, they appeared glorious and blessed at the very time when they were full of avarice and unrighteous power."

-Ignatius Donnelly, _Atlantis: The Antediluvian World_

* * *

 **Chapter V: Of Dust**

 **Bree (September, 3014)**

The Sheriff of Bree was finishing his noon lunch when two of his deputies returned from a patrol, bringing with them an item he never thought he would see again. It was a copper badge, engraved with the name _Nen Fielding._ Its presentation was followed by dark news:

"We found it at the site of a skirmish, sir. The dirt was still marked by hooves, and we found…pieces of green cloth, here and there."

"Where?" prompted the Sheriff, feeling darkness descend on his heart despite the warmth of the autumn day.

"On the Old South Road, sir, just beyond its crossing at the Fords of Isen," answered one of his deputies, his tone grim.

"And? They were the Rangers, then?"

"Yes, sir, we believe they were ambushed. We cannot be sure what took them, but sightings of Orcs and worse things have been growing more frequent." The young man paused, and then asked hesitantly, "But the badge, sir… Why would Fielding be present?"

"Why, indeed," the Sheriff mumbled, turning the copper again and again in his hands.

"Should we raise the alarm, sir?" asked the second deputy, who had remained silent until that moment.

"No. Best not raise a panic while the city remains peaceful. Whatever upheavals there may be in the South, no armies would have any business with us here."

"And Fielding?"

"Keep a quiet watch. Speak to no one of this. Whatever trouble the girl has gotten herself into, no doubt she will find some strange means of worming her way out," said the Sheriff, finding comfort in his decision as if speaking the words could make them so. He felt the weight of the Rangers' lives on his shoulders, although he had no reason to be responsible for them. But Fielding… He discarded the badge at last, placing it in one of his desk-drawers.

 _A witch-girl gone, and trouble in the South. Fielding, what have gotten yourself to now?_

* * *

 **Upper Levels of Minas Morgul—Old Quarters**

It was a proper room, and after her time in the prisons, Fielding felt the vastness of the space. In the way of the dark city itself, the bedchamber was an echo of beauty long past. The walls were of seamless stone, and carved with intricate arches that were at one time meant, perhaps, to create the image of a carved forest. Soaring windows, now marred with heavy iron bars and obscured by faded tapestries, lined the east wall. The wall facing to the west was occupied primarily by a large bed, occupied by dark, heavy bedding that was covered in a film of dust. Every surface, in fact, seemed to be covered in dust. It ruled over the ancient, rolled rugs and the empty bookcases and even over old spider webs.

To one side, Fielding noticed an open archway, and upon following it, she found an equally dust-covered bath chamber. This bath she wished more than anything she had seen in its heyday, for beneath layers of dust and grime shone a finely crafted mosaic, depicting a rising moon and its glorious rays, with the tide rolling beneath it.

All in all, the place felt horribly lonely. She tried to busy herself by shaking the dust from the bedding, which resulted in a fierce coughing fit. It smelled of mold but worse, as if the old mold had grown new mold over it. There was no saving the bedding at all, she determined, and bundled the whole of it before dumping it by the door. Let the Orcs take it, and better yet, let them give it to the terrifying and insufferable King of theirs.

"I'll _show_ him insolent," she muttered, in a terribly bad mood from the state of the place and her impending loneliness. And then, a bit louder: "But you won't come down here, will you? Because that's _beneath you_! Fight me like a man, or better yet, fight this DUST!" The door to the room opened then and Fielding halted in her rant, whirling with mouth agape. But it was only an Orc, seemingly a bit perplexed. The creature set her food on the stone floor, along with another item, and left hurriedly. She heard a heavy bolt slam without—a prompt reminder that she was still very much imprisoned in this awful place.

Upon investigation of the item the Orc had left, she found it to be a moldy old tome, heavy and battered with age. Fielding hefted it, carrying both the book and bread to the now empty bedframe. Her wrath returned though, when upon opening the book (which expelled a formidable amount of dust at her, suggesting that this whole ordeal may have been an attempted execution by dust), she found that it was written in a language she could not comprehend at all.

"Well, that is a fine joke. A very fine joke. I realize that I am a fool in your eyes, but there is absolutely no need to continue your mocking even when I am out of your sight!" With that, she tossed the tome onto the stone floor, feeling a bit satisfied at the heavy sound it made. But it had fallen open to a lovely image, and despite herself, Fielding felt all bad temper subside.

It was an island in the sea, and though it was faded with age, the colors still echoed the deep blue of the water and the gold trees that lined the shore. She had never seen the sea before, but she was no stranger to regaling tales about it. Several pages later were beautiful horses, captured in their wild prancing along the water's edge. And then there were people in conversation about a table filled with food—some of them with pointed ears and graceful, flowing features. The others were Men, but they sported no hair on their faces and seemed quite similar to the Elves in appearance. Even the food was detailed in breathtaking elegance, down to each individual grape. The image held her for quite some time, until at last the curiosity of other beautiful illustrations pulled her onward.

Here she found a portrait of a king with black hair and eyes of silver, his head framed against the stars. And there she found painstakingly detailed ships with sails outstretched to catch the wind. And there again were children playing beneath a strange tree, like no tree she had ever seen before.

Fielding felt a sudden pull in her heart, akin to what she felt when the old pirate in Bree had detailed his sailing upon the vast stretches of saltwater. She wished so deeply to be on this island, with its golden trees and horses and proud, beautiful kings. And the sea, oh how she wished to be upon the sea. It certainly could not compare to the brooks and rivers of Bree-land. The sudden sadness moved her to close the book at last, and it seemed then that all of the events of her capture and imprisonment caught up with her, and she lay upon the stone floor and sobbed. For shores she would never traverse and for the pains she suffered and for the Rangers that still lay in darkness, if they even still lived. And for her own future, which now seemed to be tied to this cold, dust-filled chamber.

* * *

A bit later, when she had no tears left to shed, Fielding pulled herself to her feet and placed the heavy tome in an empty bookcase. When she turned to the bed again, she was greeted with a familiar ghostly face.

"Vessë, how wonderful it is to see you. I had feared you would not find me," said Fielding, feeling genuinely relieved. The ghostly woman smiled her small, sad smile.

"I do not normally stray to this room, for it holds memories I do not care to think of. But thee, Nen, I knew would be lost without the guidance I promised thee," she said.

"Yes, this city is quite confusing, I am afraid—"

"My husband," Vessë interrupted her, uncharacteristically. "He was kept here."

Fielding stood in shock for a moment, and then spoke cautiously. "And your husband, is he here…now?" But the ghost woman had reverted to her peaceful, almost blissful state, and did not address the inquiry.

"Thou art as lost as I had feared, Nen, and a bit red about the eyes. It is not becoming of a woman. Fear not, for I shall remain to advise thee during thy adjustment," said Vessë.

They spoke for a bit of time after the strange event, although Fielding was again speaking to an entity that was trapped in some undetermined time in the past. Nevertheless, despite her strangeness, Vessë was company in the otherwise bleak room and so an incredibly presence. When at last the ghostly woman left again on her wanderings, Fielding curled on the bedframe and fell into a sleep filled with the great expanse of the sea and of lovely islands lost in history.


	6. Chapter VI

"Their peril is almost entirely due to the unreasoning fear which they inspire (like ghosts). They have no great physical power against the fearless; but what they have, and the fear that they inspire, is enormously increased in darkness. The Witch-king, their leader, is more powerful in all ways than the others…"

\- Letter 210, Tolkien Letters

 **Chapter VI: Of Discoveries and Second Meetings**

There were many books—some Fielding could read, and others she could only marvel at. Each spoke of a time long buried in the past. She learned of elegant dances, of chivalrous swordplay, and of wondrous sailing expeditions beneath an endless sky.

Each tale brought escape from her bleak quarters and the ever-looming question of why she was kept, and for what purpose. Vessë, though a frequent companion in Fielding's imprisonment, never let slip another detail of her mysterious husband or the fate that befell him. Occasionally, Fielding would read to her, and the ghostly woman would hover just out of sight so that her expressions were hidden. And express she did, though rarely, in the form of soft murmurs that Fielding was never able to fully identify. If prompted for an explanation, Vessë would only deny such moments, stating that the books were pleasing diversions but no more.

When Fielding was not reading, she battled the dust of the old bedchamber. Although it was a mostly futile excursion, it provided her with a means of movement, which in turn lead to a slow but steady recovery. And then, in one particular instance of her cleaning, Fielding unearthed something she never expected to enjoy again in the fell city of Minas Morgul.

Her discovery was put into motion when she noticed a spot in the old bath where the seamless stone was no longer seamless. It appeared as though someone had removed a piece of the wall and fitted it back in after the fact. With some effort and cursing, Fielding was able to remove the stone as well, only to find a dusty but unopened bottle of dark wine. So pleased and surprised was she at this discovery that she let out a loud, clear _whoop!_ that echoed clearly within her confines. The sound instantly drew Vessë, who watching with an unreadable expression as Fielding (at a loss for a means of properly opening the bottle), smashed the neck of it against one of the stone columns that lined the chamber.

She did not know how old the wine was, but its taste was spiced and exquisite. The warmth of each draught filled her—a sensation that was all too welcome after the constant cold of her imprisonment. She sat on the bed, enjoying the unexpected but very welcome discovery, when again the door to her bedchamber opened. It was not the familiar sight of an Orc that greeted her, however. Instead, looming in a space that suddenly seemed to small for it, was the pale wraith that Fielding recognized as the one who had first interrogated her. She put the wine bottle down then, prepared not for an encounter of this nature after a growing sense of peace in solitude.

It addressed her in its grating whisper, prompting her to follow. Fielding, sensing that her disobedience would earn her a sword in the neck from this creature in an instant, did not delay. As she passed from the doorway of her room, however, she felt a cool touch on her wrist, and Vessë's soft voice graced her ear: "Eärnur. Do not forget this name." Before she could marvel at this strange request, Fielding was prompted again to walk, and so she did.

As she had learned to expect in the dead city of Minas Morgul, their path took many turns and ascents. Her guide was silent, and when Fielding found the courage to glance at his features, she found them drawn into a tight scowl. It struck her then that she did not feel the same burning cold that had stricken her upon their first meeting, and the reason for it very nearly filled her with a dangerous mirth. _The wine._ She had once heard it referred to, by one of her fellow deputies, as "Liquid Courage." _How apt that title seemed now_ , she thought.

When at last they reached their destination, Fielding realized that she had not been led to the throne room, as before. Instead, upon passing through a smaller and more unassuming doorway, she found herself in a study of sorts. Its windows were tall and arching, and the heavy tapestries that covered them were now thrown back to reveal a rising moon above the sickly glow of Minas Morgul. Books filled stone alcoves along the dark walls, and she saw also many racks for fearful-looking weapons. In the center of the room stood the King of Minas Morgul himself, though his back was turned. From behind herself, Fielding heard her guide speak.

"Thy request is fulfilled, my lord."

The King turned at last, impassive as ever. "I thank thee, Khamûl. Leave us," he said in his haunting tones. And once again, Fielding was alone with the fell lord. Despite the strength of the wine against her guide's cold aura, she once again felt it seep into her in the presence of his superior. But it was still enough of an edge, and she found herself at least able to stand before him, even if she could not meet his eyes for long. After a pause wherein she felt him studying her, the King spoke once more. "Thy scent is…different."

"As is our place of meeting," said Fielding, cursing her own stupidity halfway through speaking the words. The wine, on a stomach that was used to being empty, was having a bit more of an effect than she had anticipated. The wraith's eyes narrowed, but she was surprised when he did not erupt in a fury at her.

"They have. I tire of formality, at times."

Was he…attempting to make conversation? Fielding found herself at a loss, cursing again the unknown nature of this encounter. _The books,_ she thought, _talk of the books._ "The books you have delivered to me, they are most interesting." There was a horrid pause. _Say it. "_ Well, thank you. For the books."

"What dost thou comprehend of them?"

It took Fielding a moment to realize that this was not necessarily a challenge to her intelligence. "I will admit…very little. But the illustrations have captivated me. The sea is—it is something I have dreamt of seeing," she said haltingly, but with a bit of growing strength in her heart.

"Thou hast not seen it," he said. It seemed to be a question.

"No. Only rivers and streams that lead to it eventually, I imagine. Someone once told me that they all lead there. Water finds the sea always." Was it her imagination, or had his cold features relaxed somewhat?

"It is so," he said in reply.

"And have you? Been to the sea?

"I have been many places," was the whispered reply. Fielding inwardly cursed the fact that she still did not know whether he loathed her or was genuinely wishing to speak to her. She realized then that her fists had been curled, and her nails had dug small indents into her palms. She urged them to relax.

In the lull, Fielding remembered the name that Vessë had given her upon her parting. _Eärnur._ Only when she saw the King's gaunt features constrict into a scowl did she realize that she had said the name out loud.

"What dost thou know of this name?" he hissed, seeming once again to loom over her. At once, Fielding felt the delicate peace of their conversation fail. The cold returned in full.

"I have only heard it spoken in passing. I know nothing of it." This was not a lie. But it did not seem to convince him.

"Thou art a conspirer, then? Hail thee from Gondor, _Fielding_?" He spat her name.

Fielding's heart was racing, but she desperately fought to uphold an outward calm, determined not to appear guilty. "No. I am from Bree. That is the truth. I do not know anything of the name. That is also the truth."

The King was closer to her than before, and the cold surrounding him bit into her bones. Still, she fought to meet his eyes, despite the strength it sapped from her. They were piercing and cold, and terribly keen. "Then speak another truth, thou fool," he hissed. "Where did thou hearest the name?"

"In passing," she said, drawing as deep a breath as her cold lungs could manage. "A ghost spoke it. And the ghosts here, I cannot see them, for they are fearful." This was half a lie, but the King at last drew back, seemingly satisfied.

"Fielding of Bree, I think thou seekest knowledge where thou should not."

"Would you fault me?" she dared ask then, thinking of the books he gave her. And in his grim countenance she saw once more a loss of some sharpness, if such a thing were possible.

"That is for me to decide." And the door to the room opened, revealing the wraith called Khamûl. The King spoke over her to the creature behind her. "Return the _guest_ to her chambers."

And with that, Fielding was once more led from the King of Minas Morgul, only able to wonder at the implications of that which had transpired between them.

* * *

Vessë was absent for some time, but when she appeared again, Fielding interrogated her immediately.

"The name you gave me nearly resulted in my death, Vessë. Despite your mysterious tendencies, I demand an explanation that I believe is long overdue." The woman's eyes immediately showed a great sorrow.

"Forgive me, Nen, if thou canst find it in thy heart to do so. Though I deserve it not."

"I forgive you, Vessë, but that does not save you an explanation," said Fielding. And she saw the woman bow her head, ashamed.

"It is the name of the man I was bound to find. He came here, Nen. He was a brave man, but proud of heart. I fear, though his intentions were for good, he was not different from the man he came to kill."

"What man?" asked Fielding, her heart sinking suddenly.

"The King of this place. He was king then, as he is now. And the man I came to find…He heeded to taunts and could not suffer a loss of pride," said Vessë.

"So you gave me the name of a man whom the king hates? And did so knowing I was to see him?" She could not help the feeling of betrayal, and an odd sense of loss that she could not place.

"I came to find him. It cost me my life. Nen, I have not been truthful to thee. My name is forgotten. My title is Vessë-Eärnur. That is his name, and I am his wife."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Vessë-Eärnur: A title, meaning "Wife of** **Eärnur"**

 **First of all, thanks so much for the reviews and for reading! :) And there you have it. The ghost lady, is of course, hiding plenty of secrets. So was the conveniently discovered wine right before Fielding's meeting with Angmar a coincidence? Probably not. Vessë has a lot of ulterior motives, and she is familiar with the effects of the Black Breath on mortals, especially those with fear in their hearts. She cares about Fielding, but her entire purpose is to uncover the loss of her husband, whom she died trying to save.**

 **In the meantime, Fielding has discovered a bit more about Angmar. Their conversations are a constant game of cat-and-mouse, but she's learning how to stand against him as more of an equal than as his prey. He's still very much playing their conversations to see if he can trust her, or if she is some strange spy sent to discover his weaknesses. But despite himself, he's enjoying speaking to someone who can see him. Plenty more interactions between them are planned ;)**


	7. Chapter VII

**Chapter VII: Of Escapes (Part I)**

In the cold and shadows of her ancient and dusty bedchamber, Fielding stood before the ghostly wife of a dead king. That was the nature of this place, she thought wryly. Weeks would span wherein nothing of interest occurred, and then several grand revelations came in a day.

"Tell me, Vessë-Eärnur," said Fielding, determined to find truths after they had so long been withheld. "Is it me you chose? For revenge?"

"I have done no such thing, Nen…" Vessë replied, head bowed.

" _Please_ , tell me the truth. The wine, oh Eru, the wine. You helped me find it, did you not? You knew what would happen," Fielding murmured, as each event fell into its place.

"Nen, I would not desire thy death. The wine belonged to my husband. I admit to…loosening the stones, with what strength I had. I overheard the Orcs, and knew of thy impending audience. I only wished for answers." The ghost woman was reaching for defenses now. In her heart, Fielding wished to trust her. And there was something else…

"Wait a moment. You overheard plans? How much do you overhear, Vessë? Do you know what they plan for me?" As she asked, she wondered if the answer was even one she wished to hear.

"I know little of thy fate, Nen. If thy death were planned by thy captors, I would not have withheld it from thee," said Vessë, her voice holding a plea for understanding.

"But the Orcs. You can see them. You know when they come and go, and how many they bring to my door." Fielding's heart was pounding. The fragments of a plan were forming in her mind's eye, and she felt a renewed fire that both invigorated and terrified her.

"Yes, it is true…" the woman said cautiously, noticing the change that had come over Fielding. "What is thy wish?"

"Vessë, do you not see? I could escape this place. With your help." As she said this, she saw a shadow pass over the ethereal face opposite her.

"Thy words ring true."

"And in return," Fielding said, aware of the gravity of her promise but pulled by the thought of warmth and friendly faces, "In return, I could avenge your husband."

Vessë-Eärnur, in all of her beautiful mystery, smiled a wry, sad smile that was a bit uncharacteristic. "Thou couldst not manage such a thing, Nen. Not if my husband could not. I fear the King may not be vanquished easily, and thee I will not send. I will watch thy keepers, and tell thee what I can. Thy freedom is not mine to give or take, and neither is thy life. I see it now."

"Thank you, truly," whispered Fielding, and watched as Vessë vanished beyond the walls of her chamber. She sensed that the woman, despite her kindly words, wished for otherwise. But in finding a new will for freedom that was closer than she realized, Fielding let thoughts of the ghostly woman and her vanished husband fade from thought.

* * *

In the coming days, Fielding saved half of each piece of bread she received, and stored it away in a piece of cloth that she had torn from her traveling cloak. If she were truly to realize her escape, she would need enough food to survive a trip to Gondor, given that she hid her trail from pursuit by spending several days in the mountains that surrounded Minas Morgul.

The mountains she studied through the arching windows in her room. They were steep and rocky, and likely inhospitable to anything save creatures she most likely did not wish to meet. Her most likely chance for survival would be to hide herself in them only to evade sightings from the city, and then work her way down to the plains. But if all went as planned, the alarm would not be raised. That would be where Vessë would play her part. As a ghost, she would be able to pass unnoticed long enough to observe patrol patterns and inform Fielding of the best possible routes and times for escape. The Orc who delivered her food would set the plan in motion. For months at least, her captors had grown used to their prisoner waiting far away from the door and never causing a scene. When the time came, Fielding would be waiting with wine bottle in hand, ready to render the Orc unconscious and grab his weapon and helm. If she wore the armor of Minas Morgul, perhaps she might fool eyes that happened to fall upon her in passing.

It was not a foolproof plan, by any means, and recapture certainly meant her death. But the thought of remaining in the fell city forever, at the mercy of its King, drove her forward. As did the thought of her small old tavern room in Bree, with its grumpy old inhabitant and his stories of the sea. More than anything, Fielding wished for her ill-fated adventure to close. Now, there was hope within reach.

Fielding was not ready when Vessë came to her, declaring that the time was right. But then, she did not know if she would ever be ready. She listened to the ghost outline each patrol route's weaknesses and the best means of reaching the mountains. This path would require a trip through the barracks, for there was no fault in the wall of Minas Morgul's defenses. She would leave as part of an attack party, and branch off as soon as the opportunity arose. When Vessë finished detailing the best route for escape, they talked of it again, and again, until the route was sealed in Fielding's mind. The more she thought of it, the less it seemed possible, or likely, that she would breach the city alive. But it was too late, and she could not shake the thought of Bree from her mind.

And so Fielding found herself crouched by the door to her chambers, wine bottle ready to swing, waiting for the Orc to arrive with her food. When the door opened and the ugly creature leaned forward to place her bread on the stone floor, Fielding swung with all of her might at his head and was actually quite surprised when her quarry dropped like a sack of old potatoes. As was planned, she grabbed his helm and the sword at his belt and bolted.

 _Left. Down the stairs. Another left. More stairs._ Her mental map, as described by the ghost-woman, was always in her mind. Her heart pounded fiercely, and Fielding marveled at the fact that it kept beating at all. Her legs, though stronger than they had been upon her arrival, burned with exertion.

 _Run until you reach the second hallway. Then, walk, or they will suspect you in an instant if you happen to meet a patrol._ Walking felt terribly wrong, and every instinct urged her to flee. But no sight of Orcs yet, and she hoped Vessë's observations would hold true.

Then, at the far end of the hallway, Fielding saw her first sign of trouble. A group of Orcs was crossing what would soon become her path, and without consciously choosing to, she ducked to the side of the hall and hid herself in a small alcove. Their gruff voices had grown louder and were beginning to fade when she heard something that very nearly killed her. It was a soft, cold whisper that chilled her to the bone. She could not make out the words it spoke, but she halted her breath instantly, pleading with her own body not to give her away. And she waited for what felt like an eternity, before slowly making her way again from the alcove.

The hallway, thankfully, was empty once more, and she set off in a slightly more urgent walk than before, desperate to find herself free of the fear that dogged her every move. But at the end of the hall, she realized her map had faded in the her previous state of panic. She desperately tried to recall it, and in her fervor chose _left_ , deciding that it felt the most correct to her. Stalling might mean her life, especially when she did not know how much her previous diversion had cost her.

As she moved further along, though, Fielding felt a growing sense of dread that she had, in fact, chosen the wrong turn. She thought of turning back, when she felt a presence behind her. Without turning, she knew she was spotted.

"Thou art far from thy chambers, girl," spoke the cold whisper.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **These next two chapters will be a little bit shorter, because I decided to break them into two parts. As always, thanks for reading! :)**


	8. Chapter VIII

**Chapter VIII: Of Escapes (Part II)**

"Forgive me," Fielding whispered. She was frozen in place, and could only feel as the cold behind her grew closer.

"What possessed thee to wander?" A cold, gloved hand fell to her shoulder and bade her to turn. She felt the tendrils reaching to the bone of her arm, rendering it numb. She was met with the cold, thin features that she now knew so well. And the hollow, chilling eyes.

"Did you follow me?" She managed. A strange calm was descending on her now, which she found rather unexpected. She imagined it was the same calm a man sentenced to death might feel, upon realizing that he had no choice in the matter.

"When I sensed thy presence without my study chamber. A foolish turn, I think, for a prisoner wishing to flee." Any emotion in his voice was impossible to discern.

There was no sense it denying it. "I had thought it possible. But I panicked and lost my whereabouts, and I chose the path that seemed familiar. But it was familiar for the wrong reasons, I see now."

"A fool indeed. Thou thought to breach the city alone? Thy presence is known always," he said. She realized that he had guided her to the door of his study chamber, though she knew not how. But they were now in the same place where she had last seen him, books and all. And then, in his long strides, he reached one of the wooden racks that lined the walls and drew a short, elegant sword. He wielded it easily in one hand, facing her. "What hast thou gleaned from thy days as a deputy, to be so confident?" He was taunting her now, she knew. But she had no choice. She drew her own stolen sword, standing to face him.

"Precious little," she answered. And before she even saw him move, his sword rang against hers, and the weapon was out of her hands, skittering on the floor out of sight into the shadows. She stood barehanded before the Lord of Minas Morgul, who now pointed his blade at her heart.

"Dost thou know my title?" He asked, cold eyes fixed upon her. He continued before she could speak. "In times past, I was called the Witch-king of Angmar by all who knew me. I sent many armies to their knees in terror, and ruled over many who did not dare challenge me. My kingdom in the North has passed, but my kingdom in the South exists in its place, as does my title of King. And in thy foolish mind, believest thou of thy success in fleeing?"

"I did not believe in my success, no. I feared failure as I ran. But I wished to be free of this place, and home where I was not threatened daily with death. And that wish won over the rest."

" _Foolish girl_. Death follows thee wherever thy steps take thee. Thy life is not thine to claim as a mortal, despite thy greatest wishes." The Witch-king moved his blade to her neck, and she felt the cold touch of metal against her already-cold skin.

"You sought to claim yours," Fielding dared say. The metal left her neck, and as it did, she let herself breath again.

"I won my claim. Thou hast not," he growled. But he held the sword at his side, no longer threatening her immediate death. She still expected it after her failed attempt, but this left her with more chance to seek answers, and so she did.

"What claim do you have of my life? Why books? Why spare me, even now?" And then she did what seemed against her entire nature and drive for survival to do. She stepped closer to him, until she was quite nearly against his looming, terrifying figure, and turned her gaze upwards to meet his. "If you do not wish to answer, then get on with it. I'm done waiting for a death that I should have met when I fell off of my horse."

Bravery in the face of certain death was something else entirely. She had always heard stories of it during her time as a deputy, and had even encountered it before. In a moment when a warrior had nothing to lose, they threw themselves into a battle like never before, determined that if they were in fact going to die, they were going to do the best damn job of it in the process. Fielding was no braver than any other deputy or ordinary person, really. But in this moment, facing imminent punishment for her botched attempt to escape, Fielding was able to face her captor with every ounce of insolence she had left. It would have felt properly heroic, had he actually made to kill her. But insufferably, the Lord of Minas Morgul stepped back, and no finishing blow fell.

"That is not for thy knowledge."

"When will it be?" she asked.

"When thy impudence ceases." He scowled deeply, and for the first time, Fielding caught something akin to sarcasm in his cold whisper. "But I see now that thou hast enough for an eternity."

Fielding felt it before it happened, and it seemed the most obscene possible response to the entire situation, but she found herself laughing. Not a raucous sound, but just enough to escape her lips before she could will it to stop. It ended quickly, but she felt a strange lightness in her heart that was not present before. _The greatly feared Witch-king of Angmar had made a joke at her expense._ And after she had nearly (or not so nearly) escaped his city, to boot.

The King did not laugh, and continued to watch her coldly. Fielding's short-lived mirth died, and she felt her energy slowly collapsing too.

"Then, please tell me, what will become of me now?" she asked him, truly unsure of what he planned for her after the ordeal.

"Thou wilt be returned to thy chambers, and thy guard tripled. Though I think thy lesson is learned, is it not?"

Fielding nodded, feeling her head slowly growing lighter. In her fogginess, she managed, "Will my bedding to be replaced? The mold has killed it." And she fainted cold onto the stone floor.

* * *

Nen Fielding awoke in a cloud, unsure of how she arrived there. As her murky vision cleared, she realized she was in her usual chamber, in all of its dusty glory. But the once empty bed was now laden heavy with bedding that was not moldy. She curled into it and found more sleep.

 _In her dreams she saw the face of a king, his hair dark and his eyes pale, set against a sky filled with stars. The moon was obscured by his portrait, or perhaps he_ was _the moon._

* * *

Fielding awoke at last to the sight of a lovely but ghostly face before her.

"I had feared thy death, Nen. Thank Eru thou art still among the Living," said Vessë. At the voice, Fielding smiled a little.

"I'll admit I'm thankful too. I thought I was ready, but it feels better to be breathing still, and warm," she said, luxuriating still in the feel of bedding surrounding her. She saw that the ghost-woman's face had fallen into sorrow, however. "Vessë, what is it? I am not dead, I am sure of it."

"I failed thee, Lady Nen. I swear to thee, I did not intend for this to happen, but in my heart I truly did wish for thee to remain."

"You did not fail me. I was afraid, and I lost my path. I was not ready to manage such an undertaking. And, Vessë, despite our differences and misunderstandings, I must ask for your forgiveness too. I selfishly sought your companionship, but left you without another word of gratitude. Your help is worth a great deal, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Fielding, meaning every bit of it. Vessë-Eärnur, if she were human, would have blushed. But she inclined her head in place of it, smiling widely.

"I thank thee as well, Nen Fielding."

They sat for a bit in silence, and then Fielding thought more deeply of the circumstances that led up to her lying in a warm bed that was quite unlike the one she had left that morning.

"Vessë, who brought me here? Back to this room?" But the ghost woman would not speak of it, no matter how much she pressed.


	9. Chapter IX

**Chapter IX: Of Bargains**

 _"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."_

 _-An age-old adage_

The sound was so unusual within the fell walls of Minas Morgul that it drew Fielding from a murky sleep. At first, she lay tensed beneath the heavy bedding that covered her, but slowly her ears began to register what was drifting in through her window. It was a song, formed by numerous mixed voices into a haunting cadence. Forsaking the warmth of her bed for cold stone, Fielding made her way to one of the tall windows in her chamber, pulling the heavy and faded tapestry aside to pear through iron bars to the courtyard far below. Gathered there was a party of human soldiers, their black armor reflecting the haunting glow of the city around them. She could not se their features from such a distance, but she saw their height in comparison to the Orcs that were milling about, giving care to avoid the gathered circle of singers. She was also unable to discern the words of the song that they lifted to the spires above them, but the tune itself filled her with mixed dread and fascination.

Then, before her eyes, she watched as several members of the circle stepped out of their rank, and found their way to the center of the gathering. The song changed at this too, picking up pace to become something a great deal more boisterous than before. They moved intricately, each individual weaving between other dancers in a chaotic pattern. Fielding watched breathlessly, realizing after a while that she recognized the arrangement of singers and dancers. Or, at least, she had seen an image that was very similar, in the book that illustrated a mysterious island and its people.

It could not be the same, she thought. These individuals in no way resembled the brightly dressed dancers in the book, with their wide smiles and long, flowing hair. They were echoes—shadows of a world she wished were true. And yet, she could not pull herself away from watching the spectacle. Perhaps, in a way, it was the thrill of witnessing a kindred species in a place of ghosts, wraiths, and Orcs. Regardless of how different they appeared to be, she found an odd comfort in their clear, loud voices. She was intrigued also by the way in which the Orcs and other unsavory creatures of Minas Morgul avoided these tall soldiers, despite their disorderly behavior. In fact, it seemed that none dared approach the circle at all. They were not wraiths, but they exuded the same commanding presence, even in their revelry.

Fielding watched for a long while uninterrupted, until at last she felt a presence beside her.

"They are Númenóreans," said Vessë, as she gazed also at the spectacle below. "Although these men no longer deserve the name. They are a dark folk, and their presence cannot bring good tidings."

"Where do they come from?" asked Fielding, her gaze still fixed on the dance.

"That I do not know. I have seen them once before, and not again until this moment. Their dance is one of war. The dancers leap over a sword in time to the song, and if it is not kicked, the warriors are blessed with good fortune in battle."

"They fight for the King of this city, then?" Fielding felt a small shiver when she brought up memory of him again, but it passed quickly.

"I cannot say," answered the ghost woman. "I only assume that they are here for War."

Vessë had been almost insufferable in her cryptic answers as of late, Fielding thought to herself. But she did not need the ghost woman to tell her that something was stirring in the fell city, and it filled her with a stirring curiosity. A great deal of time had passed since her attempt at escape—a month and a half, according to her counts of daily food arrival. She had not seen the Witch-king during this time either, although their correspondences continued intermittently. It had not occurred to her that perhaps the wraith was busy preparing for a war. But against whom?

In her heart, Fielding feared that she knew the answer. She thought of the rolling green land of Bree and its simple people, and what would happen to them if these singing men rode into their peaceful lives with their swords and shields. They would not stand a chance. And here she was, entirely helpless and clueless, able only to watch as the death of all she held dear unfolded in song and dance. She could not stand and fight against her keeper, nor could she outrun every Orc and wraith in the city. She could only sit and sleep and read books in languages she could not understand.

These thoughts milled in her mind as she and Vessë watched the proceedings of the newly-arrived soldiers. They seemed inexhaustible, and that only furthered her fear. But as she watched, Fielding realized there was something strange about several of the men in the circle. They appeared out of focus, and she realized with a leap in her chest that, interspersed among the Black Númenóreans, there were ghosts. She turned to her companion.

"Vessë, are you able to go to them and listen? I must know why they are here, and if I will find help." The ghost woman appeared skeptical, but she inclined her head.

"I will observe and see what I may gather for thee."

Fielding knew her companion would not see the ghosts in the crowd, but she hoped deeply that she could gain information by sending Vessë as a listener. These men were haunted, she was sure of it. Their battle victims still milled about, drawn by the violent, war-mongering natures of their killers. If only she could talk to them, perhaps she could gain information about the upcoming war that seemed now to be brewing.

What she would do with information like this, though, she did not yet know.

* * *

Vessë did not immediately glean relevant information, and Fielding waited for nearly a week until she finally received a visitor. He was a ghost—a pale image of an armored soldier slain by an arrow to chest. The man stood for a while in her doorway, until he realized that Fielding was gazing directly at him. At this, he began a long stream of anguish, as some ghosts tended to do when they realized she could see and hear them. As gently as possible, Fielding urged him to be calm.

"Please," she murmured, extending her hands. "Please, you must be calm and tell me why you are here. I cannot understand you." This proved effective, and the soldier relaxed, meeting her eyes with his own sorrowful gaze.

"I have followed the man who has slain me, but now I am nothing but lost. This place is cruel, and I have not the strength to find my way out."

"But you found your way to me. How can this be?" Fielding asked, though she knew already that many ghosts felt drawn to her (though often she wished it not).

"I carry news. I carry a message to the front line, that they may see the ambush laid out for them…" The ghost was speaking nonsense again, shifting in and out of his awareness of death.

"What does the message say?" prompted Fielding gently, knowing it was better not to disturb or alter his awareness at the time, lest she wished to further his suffering.

"Death, death to the king, lest he rule over us forever!" the ghostly soldier howled and vanished, leaving Fielding stunned and sorrowful. Her hope at gaining information was gone, and his passing a painful one. She cursed her own sense of urgency further when Vessë appeared, her gaze solemn.

"Thou art blessed with another chance to flee, Lady Nen. A plot is growing to destroy the King of this city."

Fielding could not believe it at first, though Vessë seemed trustworthy in her information-gathering. Of the newly arrived warriors, several men spoke in inner circles, connected with a mysterious informant who insisted to them that the time was right for overthrowing the city's prideful and cautious king. This information unnerved her deeply, especially as she considered the forceful message of the ghost soldier who had discovered her.

It seemed an opportune moment, certainly. The death of the Witch-king, or at least his imprisonment, would result in nothing short of chaos. If Fielding wished to escape, there was no better setting in which to attempt it again. But something seemed wrong, and it sat heavy on her mind as she listened to Vessë relay the information she had learned. Most important was the fact that they did not know the identity of the lead conspirator who encouraged the betrayal. Fielding feared that whomever it was had little or no reason to fear the Witch-king, in order to plot his demise within the walls of his own city. And another suspicion remained in her thoughts concerning Vessë herself, who had nearly killed her before in her own selfish desires that were still entirely mysterious. So when Vessë finished her story, Fielding posed a blunt question.

"You wish the death of the king as well, do you not?" she said, gazing evenly at the ghost before her.

Vessë's hazy features hardened, gaining a sharpness that further unnerved Fielding. "My wish is only to help thee, Nen. Why should I wish death upon those whom I do not know?"

"Excellent," said Fielding, exerting a great deal of effort to keep her features even and unreadable. "Let me think alone of my plan for a bit. I greatly appreciate your work—more than you know." The ghost woman nodded slowly at this and drifted off, appearing reluctant to do so. This left Fielding alone on her bed to think, and think she did.

If she attempted another escape, failure could mean certain death. And, though her own being protested the thought, she knew she was alive only because the Witch-king came upon her first, and not his lieutenant or his soldiers. With his influence gone, there was no telling her fate if the attempt went awry. At beyond that shortcoming, Fielding also knew she had no hope of reaching Bree-land on foot before any mounted armies reached them. Though she did not know if an attack was immediately imminent, she also had no surety that there would not be an attack at all. If she left now, she would lose all ability she had to learn of her enemy. The thought haunted her, and yet she saw a way to prove her usefulness to the King in a way that would guarantee her safety for as long as she wished it. It was immensely dangerous, and it filled her with nearly as much dread as did the thought of her execution for attempted escape. But within her also was the growing realization that she could at last use her abilities to gain a place above her captors, if she was careful. And finally, she knew that in the next moment, her choice determined whether or not she could maintain an allegiance with Vessë, who proved a frustrating but ultimately useful informant…

As she thought, Fielding realized she had already decided what she meant to do.

When the guard of Orcs (increased in number since her attempt at escape) arrived to deliver her food for the day, Fielding waited at the door. Before the Orc at the forefront could withdraw and close the door in alarm, Fielding spoke.

"Please, I must deliver a message to the King of this place," she said, wedging her foot between the door and the wall. This proved painful but effective.

"Ye're not permitted to see the King unless he asks," grunted the Orc.

"Yes, I understand. But you could allow me to write a letter, could you not? It is an important matter." The Orc grunted at this and withdrew to the others, where they all whispered gruffly among each other. Finally, a quill and ink were procured, along with a sheet of parchment. Fielding knelt down to scrawl a message before the guards became impatient, because time was imperative. It appeared as such:

 _I have learned of a planned attempt on your life. I request to meet, so that I may describe it to you in person._

After a brief hesitation, she also scratched her name at the bottom.

 _Nen Fielding._

With that, Fielding hastily rolled the parchment and handed it to the Orcs, prompting them to hurry and reminding them that it was an urgent matter that they would soon understand. As the door closed, she felt her fate close also.

* * *

Fielding received an audience with the Witch-king only a day later. She had hoped for urgency, but still the appearance of the Orcs and his summons filled her with nervousness.

After sending her message, Fielding had paced her room, mulling over her situation and her choice. She knew now that her fate would be sealed by her ability to determine who it was that plotted against the king of Minas Morgal, and she knew also that she would never be able to ask Vessë again for aid. But the choice was necessary, she reminded herself again and again. Now was the time to fight back—not with swords, but with her experience as a deputy, of all things.

Fielding was led once more through the winding halls of the fell city in which she was captive, this time bound at the wrists. She did not fight this precaution, though she found it uncomfortable and demeaning. _My fight is elsewhere_ , she found herself repeating mentally, like a mantra. When they arrived once more at the Witch-king's chambers, they untied her and pushed her through the doorway, shutting her in from behind.

This time, in the presence of his cold, Fielding stood strong. She felt him before she saw him, but upon laying her gaze on his pale features, she found them more gaunt and drawn than before. He was coiled and watchful, and something else exuded from him as well.

 _Fear_. It surprised her, and it gave her a strange sense of bravery. "You received my message," she said to him. The Witch-king drew nearer to her, and spoke in his solemn whisper.

"Yes. How dost thou know of this plot? _What_ dost thou know of it?" He spoke with urgency—again, uncharacteristic.

"I spoke to several ghosts upon the arrival of the new soldiers—they were called Black Númenóreans—and from this I learned of a plan to kill the King of this city. I do not know who from within your ranks leads the dissent, but I do know that there is an informant. I can learn more if you wish, but first, I ask for a bargain."

The King eyed her with his fathomless eyes. His sharp jaw was set, and for a moment, she feared that he thought this another ruse and nothing worth pursuing. But she seemed to have struck a nerve, and after a pause, he answered her.

"What is thy bargain?"

"To have a guarantee of safety. I do not know my fate, but now I ask that it does not end in death. I will aid you in understanding this plot, in return." It was not too much to ask, she thought. And if she could be assured of her safety while gaining the Witch-king's trust, she may have another chance at finding her way home, with enough knowledge to prepare those she cared about for the coming storm.

"A worthy bargain. Yet, I cannot afford thy failure."

"I will not fail." She took a breath, steeling her nerves. "If you wish, you could keep me in chambers closer to your own. The Númenóreans are followed by ghosts, and so their movements are always watched and available to my knowledge." A partial lie, but she knew it was within her capability to reach out to the dead men who haunted the warriors. And more unnerving was the thought of being even closer to the reach of the wraith, but she knew time was instrumental in her success. Correspondence by letter might become too cumbersome.

"Thou art a prisoner and an escapee. Art thou a conspirator as well?" he hissed, looking down upon her with those cold eyes.

"I could be, but you saw my skill with a sword. I cannot kill you, nor would I dare try." This was the truth, and though it seemed against her entire being to do so, she met his gaze without wavering. "I am failed at escaping this place, and I do not wish to die. So instead, I must prove my worth to you, lest you grow tired of our games."

At this, the Witch-king inclined his head. "Then it is as thou wishest. Prove thy worth and live. Fail or betray me and thy death will come slow and painful, til thy wishest thy were dead long ago." The threat was heavy, but Fielding knew she would not fail. She could not afford to.

* * *

Following her audience, Fielding was moved to a grand chamber—much grander than the one in which she had previously been kept. This one was prepared before her arrival, and had no dust or mold despite its age. It was still a prison, but Fielding now felt less a prisoner. She knew also that she was nearer the King's study, and because of this, she would speak to him directly rather than through letters. She quelled her sense of dread at this, and the thought that perhaps she had taken on more than she could possibly succeed at.

But with her new room came new privileges; namely, Fielding could be led around the city at her direction, though bound and guarded. In this way, she could gain information at will, rather than relying upon Vessë or other accidental guests.

Vessë. Her ghostly companion had not appeared since their last conversation, but Fielding had a sense that the woman knew of her own betrayal. The ghost deeply hated the Witch-king, and now Fielding had pledged to protect him. No longer would Fielding have a companion, save for the wraith who could now reach her at will.

Truly, what had she done?

* * *

 **Author's Note: Yay, updates! I am finally on a break from school, so it's back to expanding on Nen Fielding's strange adventure. This chapter is quite a bit longer than the others, but I finally got over the block I gave myself in the previous chapter. So, I hope you enjoyed it, and expect more where that came from!**


	10. Chapter X

Chapter X: Of Sherriff's Work

Nen Fielding had never set foot in a bedchamber as grand as the one to which she was confined now. Sweeping arches ascended nearly into shadow above her head, supported by ancient statues whose features were marred with age and darkness. She moved cautiously around the perimeter, noticing with distinct dread that it possessed another door she had not seen upon her entry. Given her bearings, she reasoned that it likely lead to the chambers of the King himself. The door, however, was securely locked from the other side.

At the far end of the room, near the large bed, was an item Fielding had not seen for a very long time—a mirror. Its surface was covered with a layer of grime and dust, and upon gazing into the murk, she realized with a start that she appeared not far from a wraith herself. The meager meals had stripped most of the flesh from her bones, and no rosy color shone on her cheeks. Her pale wheat-colored hair, cropped short at the beginning of her imprisonment, now hung in ragged layers just below her chin.

Despite her thinness, Fielding's features were by no means delicate. They never had been. She was not necessarily unbeautiful, but she had a decidedly androgynous cast to her features that was exaggerated by the fact that she now had very little bust to speak of. If it were not for the old dress she was wearing, she could be mistaken for a young man. That sort of mistake, she realized, might very well save her life as she conducted detective work around this place. She made a mental note to ask for a soldier's tunic the next time her captors brought food to her door.

Tearing herself away from her contemplations, Fielding finished her exploration of the chamber, discovering a stack of parchment paper, a pen, and an inkwell that had already been provided for her. Taking a sheet from the stack, Fielding wryly scrawled, " _Nen Fielding, Sherriff of Minas Morgul,"_ and set the announcement squarely on the heavy wooden table that occupied her room. Then, she set to making a list of her requirements for detective work. If she was to unearth a conspiracy, she could not do so solely from her chambers, however vast they may be.

The familiar dinner delivery, however, did not arrive. Instead, the mysterious locked door to her chambers swung open soundlessly, and she caught the movement from the corner of her gaze as she scribbled notes about her "case." Dropping her pen with a new jolt of nervousness, Fielding gazed into the room that had been unveiled for her now. There was little to glimpse from her vantage point except for shadows, and so she slowly moved toward the opening and into the room beyond. Set before her was a long wooden table of black wood, punctuated only by two high-backed chairs on either end. The walls around the table were covered in vast tapestries that were no less grand after suffering the touch of time. The room was illuminated by the ever-present ghastly glow of Minas Morgul, and though a massive iron candelabra stood in the center of the table, it was not in use.

It was then that she noticed a scent drift past her nostrils, and upon stepping closer to the table, Fielding found a place set before one of the chairs. There was a tall goblet filled with red liquid and a plate of _mutton_. Or something that looked like mutton. Fielding didn't care what it was, because her stomach clenched itself into hungry knots in anticipation of eating something other than bread for the first time in months. Foregoing her concerns at the strangeness of the situation, Fielding situated herself in the heavy wooden chair before her and set to work on food that had been left for her. It filled her shrunken stomach so much that she barely managed more than a quarter of the leg, but it filled her with a sense of warmth and strength nonetheless. She washed it down with a swig of the red wine, and only then did she glance up to see a familiar pale form at the other end of the room. The Witch-king's sudden appearance startled Fielding so much that she set the goblet down with a bit more force than was warranted, and its dull echo filled the room.

"Art thou pleased?" Despite the size of the room, his haunting whisper carried quite well.

"…Yes, I am. Thank you," Fielding managed, once again caught off-guard by the Morgul-lord and his odd behavior.

"I have arranged for my servants to attend thee in thy work. Ask, within reason, and thy requests shall be granted."

"Then I must ask for an escort," she said immediately upon his finishing. There was no sense in wasting time, and the fewer meetings she was required to have with him, the better. "I cannot do my work while confined to my chambers. Even if it is only for the duration of an hour per day with my hands bound, I must be granted access to Minas Morgul and the camps within your walls."

The King's eyes narrowed, but he said only, "It is done. Thy wrists will be bound, and _slit_ if thou shalt attempt escape."

"And I must have men's clothing," she said, trying her best to ignore the threat of being bled to death for the time being. "I do not wish to be seen as a woman here."

He inclined his head in answer, and returned through the door at the other end of the chamber, leaving Fielding at the table alone. She took a few moments to gather herself before returning to her own chambers, where she was to await the next step in her work.

* * *

Fielding received her escort shortly after a worn tunic and trousers were delivered to her door. She met not Orcs but rather an Easterling soldier with kohl-rimmed eyes. He did not speak, and instead motioned for her to hold her hands out so he could bind them. After the job was done, Fielding nodded for him to guide her down the hall.

"Take me to the encampments down below," she said. After some thought, she added, "Please."

Her silent guide did just that, leading her down numerous flights of stairs and finally out of the massive fortress where Fielding had spent the last innumerable days in captivity. Before her eyes, she saw the sprawl of the Fell City, aglow in its corpse-light. But it was not a city of ghosts—there was the bustle of life wherever she and her guide went within the confines of Minas Morgul. She saw Orcs, of course; and there were goblins, Easterlings, trolls, and the Black Númenóreans she had witnessed from before. All were moving with great purpose, preparing weapons and armor and mounts for War.

She did not even know where to begin.

"Take me to the Númenórean soldiers," she said finally to her guide, and he obliged. But despite the prospect of being among the men who she suspected housed the schemer, Fielding felt a growing sense of hopelessness at the size of the task she had taken. As they skirted through the crowds of the amassing army, she recognized nothing of what was spoken. All of the words she heard were in the fell language of Minas Morgul. Her chances of eavesdropping to gain information were dismal at best.

They reached a small dirt courtyard at last. It was surrounded by stables and held a different atmosphere from the rest of the city. She guessed there were around fifty Númenóreans before her. Some were tending to horses or preparing weaponry, but many were standing in groups, speaking in low voices. When Fielding and her captor entered their midst, she felt more than one pair of eyes turn to her, and a silence descended. She very nearly instructed her guide to leave very quickly when the activity resumed, and her presence was accepted as necessary.

 _Time to do her work._ Fielding took a deep breath to steal her nerves, and then she turned her gaze carefully to the soldiers before her. It wasn't long before she spotted them: pale, mist-like human forms that drifted among the living. Many were obviously soldiers who had died in battle—some more unpleasantly than others. But a few, she saw, were women and children. It sickened her, but she urged her guide forward nonetheless until they came upon a young man that only she could see. His pale eyes rose to meet hers.

"What do you want, boy?" He asked, reassuring her that her disguise was working.

"Your name. Who are you?" Fielding inquired. She saw her guide's eyes shift toward her fearfully, as though he were glancing upon a giant spider.

"I do not remember my name. I am dead. Leave me alone, please," he said, his voice anguished.

Fielding knelt, and addressed him more gently: "I seek to help. I am not with these men who killed you. But I need to know more about them." She glanced cautiously up at the Easterling, who was still glaring at her with fear and a hint of disgust, and then proceeded in barely more than a whisper. "There is a plot to kill someone I am entrusted to protect. Have you heard anything?"

The ghost soldier lowered his eyes mournfully. "All they appear to do is plot. But I cannot speak their language. Forgive me."

Fielding cursed inwardly and stood, heart pounding. _She could not have reached a dead end so early. Her lead was gone before it was even established._ She half-dragged her Easterling guide around the encampment, attempting to be as careful as possible that no one else saw her conversing with thin air. But every conversation ended in a similar fashion.

Their language was a sort of code. It took a while for Fielding to realize that it was separate from the language that was spoken throughout the rest of the city. But it didn't matter that she realized this if she still couldn't understand what they were saying…

At some point in her thoughts, Fielding realized that she was close to overstaying her welcome. Gazes were shifting towards her again, and they were far from pleasantly curious.

"I think you may return me to my chambers now," she murmured to her guide, and they began edging out of the encampment. They were nearly clear of the Númenóreans when Fielding caught a glimpse of one of their swords, unsheathed and leaning against a grindstone. It was inscribed in a flowing script that she could not read, but she immediately recognized its similarity to that which was found in the Witch-kings books that he had insisted on her reading. A small sliver of hope rose within her as they made their way back through the Fell City and to the fortress. If what she heard was a spoken version of the language found within the books, she knew at least one person who spoke it. It was certainly not ideal, nor was it entirely impossible that the sword was stolen. But it offered her a chance to hold her own without the help of the ghost-woman who she had inadvertently betrayed. Furthermore, it gave her the chance to hope that she would not be immediately killed when she returned to the Witch-king to report her progress.

* * *

The King of Minas Morgul stood in his private chambers, studying the vast map spread on the table before him. Numerous locations were marked and coded in only ways that he and his closest advisors understood. _They were close_. News was traveling South, and his spies had caught wind of a long-lost lead on something his Master wished for very dearly.

But in the back of the Witch-king's mind lurked another threat. Though he was appointed leader of Minas Morgul, he was well aware of pockets of dissent among his ranks. Not all criminals took kindly to having a King, and many saw themselves as better fits for the glory that the Dark Lord promised. It did not surprise him that the infernal woman-prisoner had caught wind of one of their plots. But he could not ignore it. Not yet. Always the prophecy of the elf haunted him, for he did not trust that it was as straightforward as it sounded. Nothing uttered by the Fair Folk ever was.

His meditations were interrupted by a fierce pounding on the door that led to the woman-prisoner's chambers. He scowled deeply, resenting her for summoning him like a common servant. Upon opening the door, he met her large gray eyes. She did not shrink from him like she used to, though she still held some fear that he could not wholly attribute to his appearance this time.

"Thou hast inconvenienced me, woman. Explain thyself," he growled. She obeyed, as usual, with fear-fueled fire.

"I have another request," she said, looking just to the left of his hollow gaze so she was not made to tremble under it.

" _Speak, then,"_ he hissed, impatient.

"I need to learn the language in the books you sent to me," was her insolent and utterly unexpected reply.

" _Why,_ " he managed, through gritted teeth, "What is thy motive for asking something such as this?" He saw her hesitate, but not as long as he would have liked in response to his fury.

"It is the language that the Black Númenóreans speak, is it not? I have found the source of the rumors that I heard, but I cannot understand them. In order to uncover this plot, I must learn to speak as they do," she said.

"Theirs is a dialect—it is not the language in the books."

"But you speak it."

"Yes." He cursed her, cursed ever placing himself in a situation where he relied on a _prisoner_ of all people, despite the fact that she could see beyond the veil that kept him invisible to most others.

"I learn languages quickly, I promise you this. I always have…"

"I am tired of thy promises. Thou shalt learn, with what time I can spare thee. I am not thy _manservant_ , fool, so I shalt teach thee when it suits me. If thou cannot learn quickly, thy life is forfeit."

"Deal," she said, and this time, she met his eyes with her own.

"Thou hast made many deals in thy time here. Sooner or later, thou shalt lose track of them and it shall be thy downfall," he told her coldly.

* * *

Fielding was often regarded for her sharp wit as an undersheriff in Bree. Her ideas were well informed on many accounts. This was not one of those accounts. She knew she had a time limit, and her claim that she learned languages quickly was not entirely true (she had never learned another language before, but she often made fantastic imitations of different voices when she was at the tavern with the rest of the sherriff's men…). And now, she had pledged to learn from a wraith with as much patience as a starved cave bear.

She could do nothing else, now.

* * *

 **Author's Note: After the delay, I give you...another chapter! This one was kind of slow and I'm not the happiest with it, but it's finally building toward the part that I'm excited to write the most. Thanks for reading! :)**


	11. Chapter XI

Chapter Warning: violence and threatened rape

* * *

Chapter XI: Of Words, Spoken and Unspoken

 _Fielding slept fitfully, her dreams strange and fearful. They brought her back to the island from the books, but this time, she saw no joyful dancing beneath golden trees. An empty throne loomed before her, and in the shadows behind it stood the noble king. She recognized him, but only just—his face was corrupted by death and yet still he loomed, waiting but unable to climb the steps to reclaim his seat…_

 _She turned in the vast bed, but did not awake. Her dreams shifted, and now she was standing upon a wooden gallows with the tightness of a rope around her neck. Before her in the crowd she spotted the old Sherriff and many others whom she had once claimed as companions. They watched with impassive eyes. She turned to glance at her executioner, and to her surprise, she met the dark eyes of her Easterling guide from before. He narrowed his eyes and pulled the lever…_

 _Fielding fell from the gallows, and she felt the horrid choking sensation of her own death. She struggled and gasped, watching the faces of the crowd with bugging eyes. In their faces, she saw no pity. Her vision began to darken, and her breath was becoming more difficult to draw. Suddenly, she felt cold fingers at her neck, pulling the noose from her throat…_

* * *

Fielding awoke to the darkness of her room, and she realized she was choking in the conscious world as well. There were still cold fingers around her throat, or rather, pulling something away so that she could breath. At last, the fingers succeeded, and Fielding drew in a labored, painful breath. Her vision began to clear, and to her surprise and horror, the Witch-king stood over her bed, clutching one of her blankets in his pale fingers. At first, she thought perhaps she had woken to an execution attempt, but that did not seem to be so. She remembered tossing and turning, and perhaps her movements were enough to draw one of her own blankets tight around her neck. The wraith had saved her, somehow. Perhaps after hearing her gasp for breath, crying out in her sleep for mercy.

She met his hollow eyes and gasped her thanks. The King dropped her blanket to the floor and disappeared silently through the door that connected his chambers to hers. The great wooden door closed without a sound behind him. In the darkness, Fielding raised a trembling hand to her sore throat, mind racing. _There was little likelihood that the blanket had wrapped itself so tightly on its own, even given her fitful sleep…_ But the Witch-king had been loosening it, not pulling it tighter. Unless…

A chill seeped into her bones. In all of the chaos of the past days, she had nearly forgotten about Vessë, who no doubt felt greatly betrayed. The ghostly woman, with her mysterious agenda and suppressed vengeance, had ways of interacting with the living that Fielding was not yet aware of. She had not thought the ghost capable of harming her, but she realized that expectation was entirely naïve. She would have to be more careful. If it were not for the King of Minas Morgul himself, she would have been dead before she even had the chance to awake.

Fielding did not sleep for the rest of the night. Her thoughts kept returning to the Witch-king's warning about her deals, and she was beginning to realize that maybe they were indeed catching up to her faster than she could flee from them.

* * *

Language lessons began in the morning, and Fielding felt even less prepared for them with an exhausted and sleepless mind. She was summoned once again through the large wooden door that led her to the dining-room, but she saw this time that the door at the other end of the chamber was open as well. This led her into what she immediately recognized as the Witch-king's study chambers. The King himself was sitting at a small table of the same black wood that the dining-table was built from, his form hunched over an array of aged tomes laying open before him. He did not glance up when she entered, but gestured at the chair beside him. Fielding took it hesitantly, instantly uneasy at her proximity to the wraith. She felt the familiar cold seeping into her bones, but her mind returned to the night before, and it abated somewhat. _There was no need to fear, for now. He needed her alive, or he would not have come to her aid as she died._

He continued reading in silence for a while as Fielding watched him, her muscles taught despite her urging herself to be calm. She noticed again his long, pale fingers. He was not wearing any gloves today, and she saw that he wore a heavy ring set with a dark red jewel. It was simple, and yet mesmerizing. She did not realize how long she was staring until he pulled his hand away, gazing at her with distaste, as though she had violated some great part of him.

"I apologize," she said hurriedly, feeling a bit embarrassed. And then, despite herself: "Does it cause you pain?" She saw his jaw tighten.

"What does it matter to thee?" he said, by way of answer.

"You are not a ghost. At least…not like the others. I am left to wonder if you did not die. If something is keeping you here…"

The king turned fully in his high-backed chair to face her, drawing himself up from his hunched position over the books. "You ask too much."

The words struck her. Part of it was in the way that he said them, but she noticed the different pronoun use as well. He did not address her as lesser in his archaic speech, but rather spoke as he might to an equal. She did not dare question the shift, and instead pulled one of the books to her, averting her eyes. She was here to learn words. She would learn of the Witch-king later.

* * *

Learn she did. Time passed and she did not notice, so engrossed was she in the ancient language that was unfolding before her. They began in an embarrassingly basic manner, with Fielding learning to write and recognize the sounds of words that related directly to her work. Words like _king_ and _kill_ and _plot._ Despite her fears, Fielding picked up the words quite well. He made her repeat them again and again until her pronunciation was perfect, and then she would write them again and again until they appeared to his satisfaction on parchment. All throughout, the King was impassive. If she made a mistake, he would drag the paper from beneath her hands and toss it to the stone floor behind them, forcing her to begin again. But she found that this did not terrify her, as he never raised a hand against her instead.

What _did_ terrify her, though, were the moments when he demanded that she use what she had learned in conversation with him. She could only speak rudimentary sentences, and she barely caught the main idea of anything he said to her. His lip would curl at each mistake that she made, but again, he never raised a hand against her. Nevertheless, the evident failure shamed her.

But she improved. They moved at a swift pace, to match the urgency of her mission. She did not return to her chambers to sleep, for she feared what awaited her there. The King, who did not sleep, obliged her desire to continue learning. Although she was exhausted, she was driven by a sense of adrenaline. Her mind had not been thus engaged in a long time, and she found that her continuing audience with the Witch-king had a strange draw upon her. Perhaps it was her determination to stay alive, but it also seemed more than that. She had questions about him, and she was beginning to realize that he questioned her as well. The cold fear was removed from her, at the moment.

* * *

Fielding had dozed off on the table, her head resting on an open book where her pen, at the Witch-king's allowance, had underlined now-familiar words. She pushed herself up, startled. She could not remember when exactly she had put her head down to rest, or how long she had been in that state. The chair beside her was now empty, as was the study wherein she had been learning an ancient language for hours upon hours. She focused on the book below her, her brain now picking out bits and pieces of the unfamiliar text: _King…island…crowned…_ She found another word that indicated a name: _Isilmo._ This name was associated with the word "king," but it was also associated with the word "usurp." She wondered at this, wishing she knew everything necessary to uncover the ancient mysteries housed within the old books spread out before her.

Fielding once again felt a presence near her, and she turned to find the Witch-king watching her with his oft-impassive gaze.

"I am sorry," she said. "How long did I sleep?"

"Long enough," he answered, gesturing to the book to indicate that she should continue reading. Fielding felt rather than saw him take the seat once more beside her, the cold extending to her once again. He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke in his rasping whisper: "It is unbearable."

Fielding felt a slight panic at the cryptic words, certain she had missed something and rather afraid to find out what it was. "Pardon?"

"You asked if it causes me pain," he said, continuing to address her in this respectful manner. "The pain of continued life…of being stretched thin…is more than you could imagine."

Fielding raised her eyes from the book, feeling cautious in this strange conversation. "I do not wish to imagine it, you are correct," she said carefully. She studied his pallid features—the thin skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, the feverish gleam of his eyed held within hollow sockets, the thin lips curving ever-so-slightly downwards, the sharp, hairless jawline... _He looked like someone she had seen before_ , she realized. A portrait of a king, now touched by death.

 _He was in the books._ Fielding's mind jumped to the portrait of the Númenórean king—the one who frequently haunted her dreams. She did not know if it truly was him, but the resemblance was uncanny. If it were true, he was ages old, trapped beyond the Veil to the point where he could no longer return to the living. Painful, indeed, to die without dying… And her job was to keep him there, trapped with his hubris and suffering for some end that she did not yet understand.

Fielding pushed the thought from her mind for now and turned back to the books, allowing the Witch-king to teach her. He made no mention of himself again.

* * *

Several days passed. Fielding slept at the table when she was tired, and the Witch-king did not demand that she left, so she continued doing it. When she was awake, she learned words. Their conversations became less stilted. She could describe to him a mock-plot to usurp a king, and she could recognize the correct words when he narrated a scenario to her. The books, too, became less difficult to understand. She was still only able to piece together parts of the puzzle, but many pieces, when coupled with the illuminated text, were large and helpful to her understanding.

It turned out that her voice mimicry skills from taverns long ago were actually quite useful in correctly reproducing necessary accents and pronunciation. He would not complement her, but the King appeared less infuriated by her attempts to maintain a rudimentary conversation with him.

At last, he closed the book before her, telling her that she understood enough to try her hand at detective work again. Fielding did not feel as though this were true, but she realized she was in a better place than she was when she first set off to the lower parts of Minas Morgul.

She left only a short while later, accompanied again by the Easterling, who treated her with wary respect (at least, she hoped it was respect). Once again, Fielding directed him to the encampment of the Black Númenóreans. It was not the same as they had left it: Fielding saw quite a few more armored men in the clearing, all armed for battle. They milled about, tending to horses, sharpening swords, and devouring meals of meat and wine. Fielding and her guide circled the camp, experiencing less scrutiny than before. No doubt these men, now armed to the teeth for battle, felt little fear for a thin waif of a boy and an Easterling soldier. So Fielding listened, and indeed heard more than she heard before. Many spoke of _war_ , using the word over and over again. But one group, somewhat removed from the activity and conversing over a greasy, dubious meal, used different words. Fielding urged her guide to hide them in the shadows beside the tent where this group of men conversed, and she strained her ears to listen. This time, she heard the words that she had been waiting to hear.

"King…fortnight…usurp," their conversation continued. She missed most of it, but the words were clear, and enough. And then, something else of interest: "Lieutenant…Khamûl." The second word was repeated several times, always preceded by a word that translated to "lieutenant," and Fielding realized the possibility that it was a name. She had a lead now, she realized with a pounding heart. At that moment, the conversation grew silent, and someone roughly drew back the edge of the tent to reveal Fielding and her captor. Five pairs of pale gray eyes turned to them, filled with fury. One man began to unsheathe his sword just as Fielding hissed, " _Run!"_ to the Easterling beside her. He dropped the rope that he led her by and ran in the opposite direction, leaving Fielding to find her own way with bound wrists, doing quite the opposite of what she had hoped. She sprinted away from the tent, hoping that she could remember her own way back. But the men in the tent had alerted the camp with their shouts, and more soldiers were stirring to catch Fielding before she cleared the encampment. She weaved among them, relying purely on adrenaline to outstep these professional soldiers. She was very nearly clear of the camp via an alley between two stables when someone grabbed the rope dangling from her wrists and pulled her sharply around. Fielding grimaced in pain.

The man who caught her was tall and smelled of wine and something sharper. His movements were not the clumsy stumblings of a drunken man, however, and his eyes were cold.

" _Spy,_ " he growled in her own language. He pulled her roughly forward by the hair, gazing at her face. "And _not_ a young man, though she would have us believe it," he leered, his mouth uncomfortably close to her face so that she could feel his hot breath.

 _No, no, no,_ Fielding thought, panicking. She twisted and turned in his grip, but this only seemed to encourage him further. In her time as an undersheriff, she may have been strong enough, but with her lack of good food, she was too weak to work her way out of his grip. She spat in his face. The man threw her to the muddy ground, cursing her and wiping his face. But before she could scurry away, he loomed over her again.

"We miss our women here," he leered, and she once again smelled the wine on his breath. He lowered his hands roughly to her thighs, pulling at her trousers. Fielding chose that moment to clasp his face in her hands. He grinned, and she drove her thumbs into his eyes.

The man screamed, pulling away as blood obscured his vision. Fielding stood and ran, and ran. She did not stop running until she was once again in the tower of Minas Morgul, and at last she collapsed outside of her chamber. She gazed down at her blood-soaked hands, and shaking overcame her body.

She did not know how long she sat there in the dark hall, but at last, she gazed up to see a familiar form standing before her, his gaunt features rewritten in an expression of fury. She thought it at first to be directed at her, but the Witch-king grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet, guiding her stumbling legs into the room behind the door.

" _What have they done_?" He hissed at her. Fielding shook her head at him, not wishing to speak of it. And then she remembered the precious information she had gained, nearly at the cost of her life.

"Khamûl," she managed. "That is the name associated with the plot to take your place." The Witch-king dropped her arm, pale features aghast.

"Are you sure of this?" His voice was deliberate, demanding. Fielding managed a nod. The King stood back from her, preparing to leave again. "If you speak the truth, then your job is complete. Wait for my return." As if she could do anything else.

* * *

 **Author's Note: First of all, thank you all for the wonderful and thoughtful reviews! I absolutely love your input. One of my favorite points is the concern for Fielding's diet of bread and dubious mutton. I agree-she needs to avoid getting scurvy at all costs. I'll make sure she finds her way to some better food soon. And second, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Fielding is figuring some things out, both about the Witch-king and about the unstable kingdom in which he rules. His Lieutenant plotting against him puts him in an interesting place. Obviously he can't just kill his second-in-command, especially since he would definitely feel the wrath of Sauron for doing so. But he _can_ send him away on a long, drawn-out errand. Stay tuned!**

* * *

 **Language Note:**

 ** _"...thou_ was used to express intimacy, familiarity or even disrespect, while another pronoun, _you_ , the oblique/objective form of _ye_ , was used for formal circumstances" (from _Wikipedia_ , _Thou Vs You_ ).**

 **(I noticed that the Witch-king uses "thou" when speaking to Eowyn, but addresses Gandalf using "you." Oddly enough, it seems to me like his speech indicates respect of the wizard, but he changes it when he is talking to someone that he sees as lesser. I wanted to reflect his changing opinion of Fielding through this as well.)**


	12. Chapter XII

Chapter XII: Of Revelations

Before the sun had risen to light the jagged horizon, a small company of men—mostly consisting of Easterlings and Númenóreans—rode forth from Minas Morgul's gates. At their head, atop a great black steed, was none other than Khamûl the Easterling, second in command to the Witch-king of Angmar. The ringwraith brooded in silence as he led his soldiers away from the Fell City, at the behest of both the Witch-king and Dark Lord as well. Both had somehow gotten wind of a plot to overthrow the King of Minas Morgul, and Khamûl was implicated. He bared his teeth, invisible to the men he led.

His intentions had never been to kill his Captain. Such a thing would have earned a great deal of dissent from among the Dark Lord's amassing army. Khamûl was not well-liked, being even more unpredictable and rash than the Witch-king himself in certain instances. He did not have the same calculating ease when it came to planning battles, nor did he possess the necessary stoic calm to lead them. However, he had grown tired of the Witch-king's hubris as of late. He found that he was frequently removed from military decisions, and instead was placed in the roles such as the errand-runner and the prisoner-interrogator.

No, he simply wished to show the Black Captain that he was not invincible. Had his men stormed the tower, it would have been enough to shake the King's pride somewhat. Especially if they came to his chambers armed with fire. Then, it would be Khamûl who calmly handled the situation, thus proving his capabilities to serve more closely to the Dark Lord himself.

But then the infernal girl—the girl that the Witch-king so desperately clung to him—had overheard several of the men involved in Khamûl's plan. Because of her, those men were dead. The Black Captain had seen to that. Only one survivor had escaped the mess: a blind man who had suffered his injuries at the hands of the girl herself. That is how the Lieutenant learned of her role in it all. Khamûl was furious, but above all, he felt jealousy towards his captain for keeping the girl to himself. She could _see_ them, and no doubt he thought that she could dispel the pull of the Rings that held them all so tightly, keeping their memories hostage. Perhaps it was true, for she was still alive. When he had spoken to her, she was insolent and dull, but apparently there was more to the girl than there seemed.

Khamûl hissed, frustrated at the direction of his thoughts. It startled some of the men closest to him, he noted with pleasure. They had been sent to hold Dol Guldur once more, amid rising skirmishes between the Rangers of the North and the forces that remained in the old tower. A brief victory for the Witch-king, who was able to keep his prisoner and his station at Minas Morgul. But Khamûl did not entirely receive a loss. He still remained in a trusted position in the eyes of the Dark Lord. He had now only wait, and he was quite used to waiting.

* * *

Although Fielding had wiped the blood from her hands, she could not remove it from her sight. Her mind replayed her encounter with the soldier in the alleyway, to the point where every moment was ingrained deeply in her memory.

She desperately needed sleep too, but she feared another attempt on her life while she slept. So she sat, awake, replaying her almost-rape again and again in her mind's eye. After a while, she realized she was not alone.

"Hello, Vessë," she said, without turning.

"Nen," said the ghostly woman, moving into her line of sight. Fielding noted that she looked different now—tired.

"Did you come to kill me?" Fielding asked wryly, returning her gaze to her hands, which were only physically clean.

"If I did, it would not work now," Vessë answered, matching Fielding's dry tone. "Besides, it appears thou hast found thyself a new protector."

"I did what I had to do, Vessë. I cannot die here."

"Thou hast betrayed my trust. Betrayed _my husband and his memory,"_ the ghost-woman hissed.

Fielding leapt from her spot on the bed, furious. "Really, Vessë? Because I do not know who your husband is, or that I had a responsibility towards him. What I _do_ have responsibility for is my town and the people who live there. If I die, they will never know what lurks here. If I am selfish, then you are worse!" With each angry sentence, Fielding drew closer to the ghost-woman, until they were nearly face-to-ethereal-face. The frustration she had collected, both from her experience in the city and now from another cryptic encounter with the ghost who had tried to kill her, was now springing forth. It felt oddly wonderful. Vessë, at last, withdrew.

"He was not truly my husband," she murmured.

At this, Fielding threw her hands in the air, utterly exasperated. "Is _anything_ you tell me the truth?" But the ghost-woman continued, unhindered by Fielding's second outburst.

"I was not raised in the old city here, either, though I knew of its existence. Eärnur rode forth on the night that I was to be promised to him. He did not care for me, Nen, nor did he care to have a wife at all. But I cared deeply for him. I attempted to stop him, but he was overcome by a pride so great that he could not be stopped. He thought he would be the one to slay the Wraith-king. And oh! How he was baited by the wraith himself. But he deemed it his mission." Here, Vessë's voice trembled. Fielding realized that the ghost-woman was weeping, though no tears fell. "He never returned. So I went after him. I _am_ his wife, though our union was not consummated. It would have been, if not for the king of this place and the way in which he challenged good kings to ride forth and defeat him. I cannot forgive him, dost thou see?"

"I see," Fielding answered, slowly sitting once more on the bed. Suddenly, a tremendous weight had descended upon her shoulders. "Vessë," she began again, as gently as possible. "How did you die?" To her horror, the ghost woman lowered the top of her dress, revealing a deep wound over her left breast.

"When I arrived here, Eärnur, he…was different. The king allowed him to see me, and then told him to kill me right there. He did. I have found no trace of him since." Vessë lowered her gaze. "I do not blame him. I blame the wraith that began this. He now has thee in his grasp, Nen. He will do to thee what he once did to my betrothed. That is why I could not watch thee descend along that path."

"But that still does not mean you had to try and _kill_ me, Vessë. A warning would have been lovely, or an explanation at the very least," said Fielding. But her anger had dissipated. She now felt a growing sense of unease. Her caution had certainly slipped in the past few days. She had begun to grow _comfortable_ with the Witch-king, to the point where she returned to him first to escape her near-rape at the hands of the soldiers. What did this mean for her now, especially since her detective-work was at an end?

"Forgive me," Vessë said again. "I will never attempt to touch thee again. But I plead of thee, _stay away from him_." And with that, the ghost-woman left, much to Fielding's dismay. She was left alone again to her thoughts, and they were far from pleasant.

* * *

After a while, Fielding realized she was hungry, despite all that was running through her mind. She stood and tested the door to the Witch-king's chambers, finding them open. On the dining table, according to the wraith's words, a meal had already been set out for her. But this was quickly forgotten when Fielding noticed that the door on the other side of the chamber was open as well. She was drawn towards it, though some part of her screamed to turn back. That part lost to a greater curiosity.

The study was empty. Fielding felt no cold presence, nor did she spy the Witch-king sitting at his table of books. She encircled the chamber, drawn now to the weapons on racks against the walls. Some were simple in design, but others were impossibly ornate, bearing marks of a time long past. She came upon another door, also unlocked. It opened on a grand bedchamber—more so, even, than her own. Tapestries lined the high-reaching walls, depicting images of fire and kings and the sea. The bed was large and appeared to be unslept-in. Feeling rather strange about laying eyes here, in a place that was clearly not meant for her to see, Fielding shut the door and instead went to the tall bookshelves in the study. After some time, she located the old book that the Witch-king had left for her months ago. Taking the heavy tome from its place on the shelf, she flipped through the aged pages until she found the portrait of the king from before. Beneath it was the same name she had seen during her lessons: _Isilmo._

She studied the features of the face in the portrait, captivated by the gray eyes. Somehow, their color had remained un-faded through time. They were oddly emotion-filled as well, as though they possessed a great deal of pride and indignation. Upon closer examination, she found the title in front of his name was not, in fact, "king." Instead, she recognized it as the word for "prince." _Who was this man, to be depicted as a king and yet denied the title?_

Her musings were interrupted when she felt the sensation she had been quietly dreading, despite her curiosity. Cold seeped into her bones, and she turned slowly to face what was behind her. There the Witch-king stood, silent and impassible. He wore mail beneath black robes, she saw, and intricate gauntlets covered his hands. Sheathed at his side was a longsword, and Fielding found blood near its hilt.

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his hollow features, and was astonished to find no fury there.

"Were I not in your debt, you may not be standing here now," he said in his dry whisper. He undid his sword-belt and placed the weapon with the others against his wall. Fielding watched, silent. She could not afford to anger him now. Then, to her surprise, he held out his hands to her. It took her a moment to realize he intended for her to aid him in removing the gauntlets. She did so, finding them heavier than she expected. With this finished, he lowered himself into one of the chairs around the table, indicating for her to remove his helm as well. This, too, was heavy, and Fielding breathed a sigh of relief upon setting it down on the table. Still, she felt an odd tension in the room. He was too calm about her intrusion, and she did not know what this meant. But, ever observant, he addressed her thoughts as though he could read them.

"Something distresses you." It was not a question. He indicated for her to sit. She did.

"Yes… But first, what do you plan to do with me?" Fielding asked, keeping him in her gaze. He appeared unfazed.

"I uphold my deals. You will not die here."

"I learned of Eärnur," Fielding blurted then. "Did you make deals with him, too?" _Too far, too far._ But it was already too late—the words had left her mouth. She saw his scowl deepen, and he leaned forward, his ice-cold breath drifting over her face.

"I made no _deals_ with the king of Gondor. Do you wish to explain why this has crossed your mind, girl?"

"I…I have met someone who holds you responsible for his death," Fielding said in barely more than a whisper.

"I _am_ responsible," he growled. "But he came to me demanding a fair fight. I obliged him, fool though he was."

"Then I am satisfied," Fielding answered, keeping her voice steady. She was not entirely satisfied, but as a trespasser, she did not earn the right to pick his consciousness at the moment.

"Good. Then tell me why you have come uninvited to my chambers," he said.

 _There_ , she thought. It would have been unusual if the King had let her trespassing go unnoticed. Luckily, she had nothing dubious to hide, and so she could answer him truthfully. "I saw that the door to your chambers was open, and so I came to look at the books. I could not sleep," she added. He seemed satisfied, and nodded to the book open at her hands.

"What did you find?" There was something in his voice that she could not place.

"A name…" Fielding said softly, once again meeting his hollow eyes directly. "Isilmo."

As she said it, she saw him tense visibly, as though the mention of it caused him pain in some unseen place. "A name I have not heard spoken in a very long time," he whispered.

"Yours?" But with the image of the portrait open before her and the gaunt face of the king in her sight, she felt she already knew the answer. He seemed to sense this too, and did not offer her a worded response. She asked again, in barely more than a whisper: "What do you wish from me?"

"I cannot answer," he said, finally. This caught her off-guard.

"Because you do not wish to? Or because you have none to offer?"

"Because you would not wish to hear my answer," he responded.

Fielding felt strangely in her heart—even more so when he told her this. It was not something she expected to feel at this point in time. Indignation, and something more. She tilted her ever-so-slightly upwards.

"Try me," she said.

"I shall. Believe me, I shall." And he leaned down roughly to kiss her, his arms reaching to wrap around her slight form. Even as Fielding registered in her mind the utter wrongness of it all, she slid her own arms up to his neck. It felt like plunging into an icy river, being pressed up against the wraith that she had so long feared. She dug her fingernails into his cold skin—enough to make a mortal man bleed, and she felt him inhale sharply, taking her breath with him. And yet she pressed further in response, the blood singing in her veins, driving to warm her chilled fingers.

The storm of her thoughts fell silent as she let herself drown.

* * *

 **Author's note: *cowers from the thought that Tolkien must be rolling in his grave, but it's fine***

 **But yaaay! Another update! Summer break is wonderful. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks to everyone for the reviews, and for those of you who write such beautiful fanfics about the Witch-king finding love in his own way. Even though it's not in the canon, it makes it so much easier to see how everyone else has interpreted the character and the depth that the books never touch on. I'll try to write things between these two as believably as possible, but I'm always open to suggestions ;)**


	13. Of Strange Things, Long Unseen: PART 2

**Of Strange Things, Long Unseen—PART 2**

 _Sentimental one without any story_ _  
_ _Your pages are full_ _  
_ _Your age is a lie_ _  
_ _Tall and funny soul your daydream ain't over_ _  
_ _Portray the land_ _  
_ _Behold your crown_

 _Hear the sirens calling_ _  
_ _Old and merry tune_ _  
_ _While the sailor's falling_ _  
_ _Last chance to rise don't worry_ _  
_ _Need a lullaby to restore your glory_ _  
_ _To restore your glory_

 _Foreign creature your gift is a burden_ _  
_ _You were born for the stars_ _  
_ _It has shown in your cards_ _  
_ _Frightened being you better run but slowly_ _  
_ _Heir to the throne_ _  
_ _With patience alone_

 _In a million years it'll all be over_ _  
_ _In a million years it'll all be over_ _  
_ _Till then_

 _Hear the sirens calling_ _  
_ _Old and merry tune_ _  
_ _While the sailor's falling_ _  
_ _Last chance to rise don't worry_ _  
_ _Need a lullaby to restore your glory_ _  
_ _To restore your glory_

 _-Lola Marsh (Sirens)_


	14. Chapter XIII

Chapter XIII: Of Departures

Fielding awoke to the welcome weight of blankets around her. She felt peaceful enough, but beneath that, she found a gnawing sense of loss. _Had it been a dream?_ The memories of her previous encounter with the Witch-king were drifting back, and they only served to fuel the confusing mess of emotions roiling beneath her ribcage. He _kissed_ her, and she let him. Encouraged him. For a great deal of time, until she had become numb. She remembered the point where she had lost her hold on him because her arms were too cold for feeling or strength. He had carried her back to her own chambers… She remembered, with growing embarrassment, that she had asked him to stay. He did not.

For a moment, despite everything, she had forgotten where she was. Her mind had returned to warm taverns and dares among friends, where there were no consequences other than teasing glances and clever jests. She had forgotten that she was a prisoner, and that he was a wraith more blood on his hands than she had years in her life. And still, very few questions had been answered. If anything, she had more questions than ever.

She pushed herself up from the warmth and safety of her bed. It was only then that she noticed a bowl set beside her bed, filled with _fruit_ of all things. It was the most color she had seen in Minas Morgul thus far. The small gift cheered her a bit, and she reached for one of the bright-colored morsels, enjoying a sweetness she had not tasted since her time in Bree-town. It gave her courage, and she finally found the strength to stand on the cold stone floor. At that moment, a strange sound registered in her ears, and she realized she could hear a multitude of voices from the other side of the door that led to the dining-chamber. Fielding made her way over on silent feet, attempting to glean some of what was being discussed. It was unusual to have a crowd in this part of Minas Morgul—at least in the time that she had been present there. Naturally, she was curious.

Unfortunately for her curious mind, she was not able to clearly pick out the words that were being spoken, muffled as they were. The voices had a familiar rasping quality to them, however. She backed away slowly, suddenly sure that she did not wish to be caught eavesdropping here. Instead, she moved to the table in her room, still covered with her preliminary notes for her "investigation." These she pushed aside, and then she began to practice her Númenórean until the conference beside her room was finished.

In due time, the door swung open, and the Witch-king entered her room. Fielding glanced up at him, gently setting down her pen. Her heart was pumping wildly, as this was the first time she had seen him since the _incident._ Both to her relief and disappointment, he betrayed nothing of their previous encounter.

"You are to be moved from this place," he told her.

"To a different room?" She could not think of any other place that he could send her, unless he returned her back to the dungeons at last. The thought made her shudder.

But the Witch-king held up a hand, indicating that he wished for her to be silent. "To Dol Guldur."

" _What?"_ Fielding pushed herself up from the table, stunned. "But the one who conspired against you, did you not say he was sent there?"

"Yes."

"Then why…?" The wraith was clearly tiring of her blatant interrogation, but she was too taken-aback to care. She was being liberated, only to be sent to another prison. The prison in question, though, was under the watch of someone who she had clearly burnt bridges with.

"You have noticed the preparations in the city?" He asked her, though it was less of a question and more of a statement.

She attempted to quell her sinking feeling. "Yes."

"The time for preparation is nearly over. I have been ordered to move forces to maintain our hold on Mirkwood. This order includes removing you from a position that allows you to hear and understand what comes to pass here. It is no longer a place for guests."

Fielding knew in her heart that they had seen through her plan from the beginning. They would not allow her to stay and gain information. In her time as a prisoner in proximity to the King, she had clearly forgotten her expendability. "Did you have a say in this?"

"I had enough of one, yes. My deal with you still stands. Khamûl will behave himself," the Witch-king said in reply.

"Let us hope so," Fielding said, not at all comforted.

The wraith did not address this statement, but rather continued on. "We will depart at moonrise. You will be provided with the necessary means to make the journey."

Fielding did not miss the significance of what he said. "We?" She asked him.

The wraith inclined his head. "I have business in the North as well—necessary preparations." He watched her closely, eyes glinting. "You did not think I would allow you to travel alone? You are no fool, and neither am I."

She did not know whether to be pleased or terrified.

* * *

True to his word, the Witch-king provided Fielding with everything she needed for the journey to Mirkwood. She wore a heavy traveling cloak over her shoulders, as well as a well-woven tunic that sat atop light chainmail. She was provided with a mount as well—a brown stallion that was well fed and strong. And, since she was placed under the Witch-king's watchful gaze for the entirety of the journey, she was allowed to travel unbound. It was a small blessing, but it relieved her not to have rope biting into the raw skin on her bony wrists.

They set out as the moon found its place into the dark sky above Minas Morgul. A larger company of soldiers, led by two ringwraiths, would set out on the same path upon the following night to join Khamûl in Dol Guldur. Fielding and the Witch-king were to travel ahead, however—an arrangement that she knew the Witch-king had most certainly made himself, since he did not seem the type to be slowed down in his travels. It did not bother her in the slightest. One wraith at a time was enough for her.

As they passed through the enormous gates set to guard Minas Morgul, Fielding felt her heart soar. At that moment, she did not think of what awaited her at the end of this particular trek. She was finally free of the city and its corpse-light glow. She would not see the dark bedchamber again, nor would she be haunted by its ghosts. Nevertheless, she felt a sliver of guilt upon leaving Vessë behind, despite her complicated relationship with the ghost-woman.

" _I pray you find closure, my friend,"_ She murmured, sending her thoughts back to the dark halls that the almost-wife of Gondor's fallen king roamed. And on they rode, leaving Nen Fielding's former prison behind.

* * *

The night was cold, but Fielding's traveling cloak was enough to keep the chill from her bones. She and her companion—or captor—traveled in silence, both keeping to their own respective thoughts. They followed the Harad Road from Minas Morgul, which took them through North Ithilien. To their right loomed the jagged mountaints of Ephel Dúath, which concealed Mordor beyond them. And, to their left, Fielding could just barely discern the lighted fires within Minas Tirith, the capital city of Gondor. _So near her, and yet so far from her grasp._ Fielding took her eyes away from the city, finding that its lights only rekindled the fear and sadness in her heart.

Before her, the wild landscape of North Ithilien unfolded, illuminated by the pale glow of the moon in the sky above them. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the fresh air that never found its way into Minas Morgul. It cleared her mind, and she smiled slightly despite herself. Their horses too seemed invigorated, and they carried along the narrow road at a steady clip. Fielding's stallion kept a surprisingly easy pace with the Witch-king's great black steed, and they rode abreast, nearly taking up the entirety of the old road.

After some time, when the lights of Minas Tirith were long behind them, she heard his cold whisper through the night air between them. "We will rest soon, lest the mounts tire too early for our journey."

No doubt he saw what she did as well: flurries of snow were beginning to drift into the darkness before them. The horses were capable, but she understood well the effort a winter ride could require. They continued for a while longer, until at last they came to a dark copse of trees—evergreens that still held their foliage. He signaled for her to leave the road with him, and they entered the copse until they were away from sight to any travelers. In the stillness of the night, Fielding heard the sound of a small brook not far from where they dismounted. The site was an ideal stopping-point, and the overgrowth above them shielded them from the snowfall.

Fielding turned her gaze to the Witch-king, finding him as tense as a coiled spring. He did not enjoy stopping, though he knew they had no other choice. It was either rest here or be forced to stop later in the unsheltered marshes and plains that awaited them further north. He motioned for her to find the stream, as it was not far from the clearing they had chosen. She followed the sound of rushing water, the pine needles crunching lightly under her feet as she found her way towards it.

The stream was indeed small, and ice-cold from snow runoff that traveled down the mountains. She plunged her hands into it, bringing a draught of the water to her lips. It was sweet and fresh, unlike that which she had been served during her time in Minas Morgul. She filled the cask at her side as well, unsure when they would run across another source such as this.

When Fielding returned to the clearing where they were to make their camp, she found it illuminated in the soft glow of witch-light. To her surprise, the light also offered warmth, though it held none of the comforting brightness of an open flame. It was enough, she supposed, remembering from her brief experiences on the Barrow Downs near Bree that wraiths and the undead did not particularly care for fire. At the very least, the witch-light was not enough to draw curious passers-by, if any happened upon the road at this hour.

Fielding made herself comfortable beneath one of the surrounding trees, spreading her cloak on the pine needles below it to create a surprisingly comfortable resting place. As she pulled a bit of bread and dried meat from her travel-pack to dine on, she kept her gaze on the wraith who stood several strides away. His eyes were directed upwards, perhaps watching for the first rays of sunlight to break through the branches. He was the picture of caution and discomfort, having calmed very little from the moment they had arrived at their place of rest. He had a long-fingered hand resting ready at his side, upon the hilt of a short dagger. Even from her spot beneath the tree, Fielding glimpsed the red glint of the ring upon his finger.

 _Stretched thin…_ How strong the pull of the magic around him must have been, in order to drag him beyond the veil of the living though he was not truly dead. He had mentioned rings of power to her in one of their conversations, long ago. It must have been the source of his power, she thought. Or the source of power for the One who had power over him. Though she was not especially cold, she shivered nonetheless.

Her thoughts returned to their kiss, and the ice that had immediately sought to travel deep into her bones. She wondered how she felt to him—if her skin was fire to his touch, or if it was a memory of life long spent…

The Witch-king turned his gaze upon her, before she could hide the fact that she was staring.

"I oft forget that you see what others do not," he said. Though whispered, his words carried easily to her. "It is an…unfamiliar experience."

Fielding managed a bit of a smile. "I forget too, to be entirely honest with you."

He did not smile in return, but she thought she saw his shoulders relax somewhat. There was an ancient heaviness in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. "I do not yet know whether or not I wish to welcome it," he told her. His hand had dropped from the dagger, but he still cut an ever-imposing figure. In the cast of the witch-light, his gaunt features appeared even sharper to her, and his hair gleamed like the snow.

"I understand," she said, having had similar conversations with ghosts as well. She often felt as an intruder might, gazing into a world that she was never meant to see. "If it helps you, I have no greater power for it.

"I do not need your consolation, nor do I believe you truly know what you are saying," he retorted.

Fielding turned her eyes back to her half-eaten bread, busying herself now by rewrapping it in cloth and returning it to her pack. She did not know how to answer, and she did not think he wanted one. As it had been quite consistently since the night before, the memory of the kiss returned to her. He had forsaken life for something greater. He both wished and did not wish to be reminded of it. That was the only thought that continued to run through her mind. Perhaps she _did_ have a power over him. If that were true, her hold on life was more fragile than she had thought.

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it.

"Sleep," he answered, after a pause. "We will not remain here long."

Fielding lowered herself onto her cloak, closing her eyes but unable to follow these orders just yet. Her mind was roiling, and it was not yet ready to stop. Her mouth moved to form the words before she was truly aware of it: "I did not mind your answer. From before…"

"There are those who did," he hissed in reply.

* * *

Fielding awoke to the pale light of dawn filtering in from the cover of pine needles above her. It appeared overcast, but she was relieved to find that she had not been buried in snow during her slumber. When she sat, she found the Witch-king waiting beside his steed, now wearing his heavy robes of black. Though he could still travel beneath the sun, he did not especially welcome its touch.

She sensed his urgency again and returned her traveling cloak to its place on her shoulders. As she hoisted herself back onto her mount, she felt his eyes upon her. When she turned to face him, he indicated for her to raise her hood and she did so, obscuring her face. She was still a prisoner, and he would not allow for her to be recognized.

They set out from the clearing at a steady trot, leaving the camp and their conversation behind. Beyond them, past the turn of the Harad Road, loomed the gray marshes and the battle plains of times long past.

So Fielding traveled North, at last, away from her prison and to another.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Confusion and drama! Nen and Angmar really have no idea how to deal with what happened, and to make matters more confusing, they are stuck together for quite a while. At the very least, Nen gets some fresh air and a change of scenery. But traveling, as we have learned from LOTR, is never a completely calming experience.**


	15. Chapter XIV

**Author's Note/Chapter Warning: Okay, so this chapter earns its M-rating at the end for canoodling, beyond the final cut (you'll know when you get there).**

 **YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, SO YOU CAN SKIP IT IF NECESSARY. That being said, it is nothing extremely graphic. I also strictly avoid writing non-consensual sex, but be wary that Nen and Angmar's relationship is not a fluffy one (even though I totally would just love for them to be happy all of the time) and so there are still a lot of dark and murky elements to it. He's a wraith, after all.**

 ***Flails* Thanks for reading and for all of the lovely reviews/support thus far!**

* * *

Chapter XIV: Of Dead Men's Tales

Fielding felt the Dead Marshes long before she and her captor rode upon the forgotten battlefields. Unlike the cold of the winter air around her, they created a cold that pierced all of her defenses, sinking deep into her and forming claws around her insides. She gasped audibly, causing the wraith beside her to turn his gaze away from the road before them.

"What ails you?" He asked her, though not quite tenderly.

Fielding could not find an answer. She felt as though her voice was petrified in her throat, and so she only fixed her eyes on the changing landscape.

The land they approached was gray like the skin of a long-dead man. No trees stood there, and so the biting gale of winter blew fiercely across the flat expanse. Dry grass hissed and danced at the wind's touch, carrying with it the cries of an age-old battle.

 _Screams and drums. Pleas for mercy, and denials of it._

It was like the Barrows of her childhood, but the presence of death was tenfold. No ghosts were visible to her—rather, it was as if the land itself was the ghost of death and violence. The sound of their horses' steady trot slowed as hooves met mud and shallow murkwater, and Fielding lurched in her saddle. She made the mistake of gazing down, only to find that the water was not as shallow as it appeared. She could not see the bottom—it was only obsidian darkness beneath the still water's surface. It called to her, pleading for her to enter.

Fielding toppled from her saddle, plunging into the icy grasp of the marsh. Her heavy cloak and mail pulled her beneath the surface, but her mind no longer felt fear. She was numb, and her consciousness had left her.

She drew the Dead like moths to a flame.

* * *

 _His name was Tegalad. He was a young Silvan Elf, possessing of a kind countenance and a noble heart. Oft he was called Rusc, for his red-brown hair was reminiscent of the sly wood-fox._

 _He rode with pride for Gil-Galad beside many of his beloved brothers and sisters. Though he was young enough to feel fear at the thought of battle, his heart swelled at the thought of aiding in the defeat of the darkness that plagued Middle Earth._

 _He rode with Oropher, setting out into the battle before Gil-Galad had advised. But defeating the Shadow could not wait, and Tegalad was swept into the rush of ferocity and bravery that many of his fellow Elves carried within them._

 _When they reached the Marshes, however, it instantly became evident that they should have heeded Gil-Galad's warnings, frustrating though they were. There were Orcs as far as the young Elf could see, and very few familiar faces as they became lost in the chaos of battle._

 _He vowed not to falter, and he cut down many enemies after this vow. Dark blood stained his sword, and still no blows came to him. Until, at last, he faltered. A strong, clawed hand grasped at his ankle, pulling him down from his horse. He hit the mud of the ground, short of breath but driven by an urge to survive. To return to Mirkwood and his wife and daughter._

 _He slew the Orc that had pulled him to the ground, and then several others who saw an opportunity but found only the point of his sword. But he was stopped by a larger form—taller than any Orc and even taller than himself. Before him, cloaked in voluminous black robes, stood one of Sauron's most feared servants—a Ringwraith._

 _The foul creature, upon meeting his eyes with the blank darkness beneath its hood, raised a short blade in response. Tegalad raised his own sword in defense, but it was struck from his hands with a blow that reached his very bones._

 _He would not plead. Not to a creature such as this._

 _He did not cry out as the blade pierced his chest. He gazed defiantly into the darkness as he fell, and the cold water enveloped him._

* * *

Fielding sank still further into the gloom as pale, dead fingers caressed her cheeks and hands, seeking to possess her warmth. Seeking, ever still, to be liberated. Their sickly light was a pale mockery of the winter sun that was nearly obscured from the surface, and had she been able to open her eyes, she would have known to push them away and flee towards that fading light.

But she could not awake, so deep in the memories of long-dead soldiers was she. They called to her, and she could not block them out.

* * *

 _He could not remember his name. He watched as the red-haired elf fell—his bright light fading at last—and felt no remorse. He did not believe he was capable of remorse any longer._

 _The ring burned on his finger, always reminding him of his choice. He had forgotten regret, for regret paled in comparison to the crown he wore and the power his name carried._

 _He had forgotten regret, though it had taken everything from him. His lungs had long ago collapsed, and yet he still forced them to breathe. He could no longer eat or drink, and yet he was wracked with hunger pains and thirst. He could no longer see, and yet images still arose in his vision of the Living and the Dead before him._

 _He took life, and in turn he was given a pale mockery of it. But he was a King, and for that, he saw it as nothing less than a victory._

* * *

Hands seized her—hands from above rather than below. She was dragged up from the murk, and as the ghosts lost their hold on her, she awoke and began to struggle for breath. Panic rushed through her body, and her eyes caught a final glimpse of glowing, grotesque faces before her head broke the surface and she gasped for air, retching as the murk expelled itself from her lungs. She was hoisted into her saddle, and her feverish eyes met the hollow gaze of the Witch-king. His robes dripped water, and his eyes were cold with fury and something that she could not name. Exhaustion seized her, and she returned to blackness from the safety of her saddle, where some unseen spell now held her securely in place.

* * *

Fielding awoke to warmth and a true fire, which melted the ice from her bones. She regarded her surroundings and found herself to be beneath a stone outcropping, in a shallow canyon formed by a stream that was now long dry. It was night now, for no sun shone in the sliver of sky that was visible to her.

Her head was heavy, but memories of the marshes were returning now. They threated to drive the warmth from her body again, and so she inched closer to the fire with what strength she could muster. The visions were so _clear_ , as though they had been her own memories. The more she remembered, the more she was filled with a deep and pervasive sadness.

Movement caught her eye, and she turned her gaze to the Witch-king, who stood a distance from the flame. He had been regarding her quietly, obscured by shadows cast by the rocky face that shielded them from the wind. He was not wearing his black outer-robes any longer, having cast them aside for the pale gray ones he wore beneath.

"You are awake, I see." He indicated their traveling cloaks, which were drying on the other side of the fire. "Continuing with those in the cold would have meant your death."

Fielding watched him, unsure. Finally, she told him what she knew to be true: "Thank you. You saved my life."

"You create more trouble than you are worth," he said in return, but there was no cruelty in his dry whisper. He paused for a beat, and then seemed to acknowledge the fear and sadness still written on her features. "You witnessed only an illusion, powerful though it was. None of the Dead are still trapped in the Marshes—only memories."

"It certainly seemed as though they were real," she murmured, hugging her arms closer to her chest to fight the chill of remembrance.

"The shades, perhaps. But the real spirits are long gone."

It was odd to hear him this way, reassuring her. Odder still was the fact that it seemed to be helping, although something surfaced in her mind that his explanation did not quite satisfy:

"I believe I saw your memories as well," she murmured.

He tensed visibly at this. "That is not possible. You were near death—what you saw has little meaning."

"Perhaps so," Fielding answered. "But I saw the memories of a soldier as well. I saw you kill him, and as you did so, I saw your memories as if they were my own. You were in pain, but the ring, it pushed you forward."

His mouth was drawn into a tight line as he held her in his gaze. "You do not lie."

"Why would I have reason to?"

At this, he lowered his head at her, acquiescing. "What you glimpsed was a fool's charge. Many lost their lives, as Elves of rank brought their own into battle before they were told to do so. They suffered for it—a poor outcome for a poor strategy. Their deaths were their own choices."

Fielding pushed herself up onto her elbows, and then slowly into a sitting position, watching him as he recounted what she had seen for herself. "Why would I see your memories, then?"

"I do not know," he answered. "Though much of the arcane is familiar to me, I possess no explanation."

But Fielding's mind was already spinning, and it had reached a thought that she could not let go. "The battlefields themselves were ghosts, as if the battle was immortalized. Maybe everyone there left memories. You did as well, when you took Tegalad's life," she said, feeling the hairs on her arms rise as she spoke the name from her visions in the marsh.

"And," the Witch-king hissed, "These are visions for only a scrawny girl from Bree-land to see?"

She shrugged in answer—a tired gesture. "I have always seen strange things. And the strange things that I see seem drawn to me, as though they need me to answer something for them, or to _give_ them something. But I've never learned what it was." Her eyes met his, and she held his gaze with a spark of strength. "I have sworn it to you before and I will swear it to you again: if it gives me more power than that, I have absolutely no knowledge concerning its use."

At last, he seemed to abate somewhat. "At the very least, it would be in your interests to forget what you have seen, or it will devour you in time."

"I promise you I will try," Fielding said in answer, turning once more to the warmth of the fire.

 _Wraiths detest flame, and yet, here they were._

* * *

The fire had dwindled to smoldering embers, and Fielding was wrapped once more in her cloak. It was reasonably dry now, and offered her comfort with its weight upon her shoulders. The Witch-king had vanished for a time, but he was now returned and redressed into his traveling gear as well, seemingly more comfortable now that the light from the flames had diminished. He lowered himself to a seat formed naturally by fallen rocks and studied a map that he had retrieved from where the horses stood beyond their small camp.

"How far for us, as of yet?" She asked him, catching a glimpse of the inked rivers and mountains spread out before him.

"Our journey remains many days long following this delay," he answered, drawing out the word _delay_ just slightly to betray his irritation.

She laughed once at this, very softly, causing him to glance over at her. "Yes?"

"It is nothing. Only…"

"Say what it is you wish to say," he growled.

"I was only going to say that we have an odd…friendship. If it can be called that."

He lowered the map, gaunt features unreadable. "Can it?"

"I think so. Even if you loathe me. You saved my life, and although you seem content to forget, we did kiss. Quite a bit," she said. It was odd. She knew she was meant to fear him. He was still her captor. But at this moment, she felt little fear for the wraith that had leapt into a haunted marsh to drag her back to life.

The Witch-king inhaled—a deep, painful sound, and then expelled his breath in a manner that reminded Fielding oddly of the Bree-town Sherriff, who employed similar calming techniques when his patience was tested. "I had hoped you would remain nothing, and that I would not be reminded of you at every waking hour," he said, finally.

"I hoped so too," Fielding countered. "Do you really think I sought all of this out on purpose? I was just trying to stay alive. I a _m still_ just trying to stay alive."

He was rolling the map, securing it again with leather, as he answered her. "Then you and I are not so different."

Fielding frowned in frustration at this continuation of cryptic replies. "So if neither of us wanted whatever the _Barrow-downs_ is going on here, what do we do next?"

He did not answer, and so Fielding stood, difficult though it was. She marched over and stood before him. "You do not scare me any longer," she declared. "And because of this, I can tell you that I do not wish to be strung along by you. I am being dragged to another prison, to spend time with an individual that I personally duped, across forsaken places that try to drown me. At the very least, allow me to claim what is mine. In this case, it is an explanation of that night, which you have continued to deny me."

As she finished speaking, he stood as well, towering easily over her. She did not back down, and he addressed her curiosities at last. "I have been unseen for Ages, save by the eyes of my brothers and my Master. And then _you_ , a woman of no consequence, reveals the ability to gaze beyond the Veil, and I have no choice but to unravel why such a thing occurs. But you did not back down, nor did you surrender when it would have, many times, been the wiser option. I was left with curiosity, and then a _desire_ to be seen by someone else, after so much time. And now that you have seen, I cannot bring myself to destroy you." He reached out, catching her jaw in his long-fingered hand and holding her gaze to him. Against her skin, Fielding could feel the fire of his ring, as though it had been drawn from the smoldering fire itself. "Though you do not realize it, you bring me to what I have long forsaken. And some part of me still hungers for it, though I wish it not."

Fielding reached up a hand, laying it over the fingers that held her. "I cannot offer you redemption," she murmured. "But in its place, perhaps I can grant you some small comfort."

At last, he whispered his approval, and she pulled them down together.

* * *

Fielding had been with a fellow undersheriff once, many years ago in Bree. They had all returned from overtaking an entourage of bandits to drink in the taverns. His name was Roy, and he was on the good-looking side of ordinary. Throughout the night, they traded jokes and stories, and then he had invited her home. He lived in a farm just on the outskirts of Bree, and he took her into one of the barns set away from the main house. In the musty hay under cobweb-filled wooden rafters, Fielding let him take her. It was over before she had truly begun to enjoy herself, and she found that the act did not leave her feeling any different than when she had walked into the barn, hand-in-hand with Roy. They spent the night together, but the experience of being with a man had been utterly unremarkable to her.

This was entirely unlike like that time.

Fielding spread her cloak on the dirt and stone beneath them, offering herself relief from the cold ground. She helped him to remove her tunic and trousers as well, and felt both the ice-cold touch of his skin and a heat that was building deep within her belly.

He pleasured her with his fingers, and she twisted into his touch, driving him always to continue. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that opening them would break the spell that held her as if under the waves of the sea, away from fear and doubt.

She was shivering, and she felt his lips whisper something against her ear. Suddenly, her body was awash with warmth, and his skin was no longer cold. His fingers had been replaced by something else, for both his hands now cupped her face with a gentleness that she had not expected from him. She wrapped her arms around him, allowing the water to move her and envelop her.

The sensation was unbearable in the way that made her wish for more. Her fingers felt the taught muscles in his back move as he moved in her, and suddenly she could remain beneath the water no longer. She surfaced, gasping, into the cold air once more. Never had she been so reluctant to breathe.

* * *

Fielding wrapped herself in her cloak when it was over, though the warmth he had given her still lingered. For a moment, it had been as if she was in the arms of the black-haired prince, on an island far away from the shadows that loomed around them. As she glimpsed him, his features illuminated by the dying light of the fire so that they were both more and less human, she knew she had done the same for him.

She could not shake the sense of grave seriousness in their choice. Her distant night with Roy had possessed no consequences, and in contrast, this night held all of them.

* * *

 **Author's Note: This chapter ended up having ALL THE THINGS HAPPEN. Originally I was going to split it into two, but it seemed to flow better with everything in one place. Thank you so much, as always, for reading! This fic is becoming dark in different ways, as I come up with new ways to blaspheme poor Mr. Tolkien. *Offers lots of tea as compensation* That's what fanfiction is for though, right?**

 **But anyways, stay tuned for more adventures. There is still a long ways to go before Dol Guldur…**


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